


Slower Than Words

by TheYesterdayShow



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bad Parenting, Blind Character, Cults, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Is A Good Friend, Deaf Character, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Food, Hospitals, Hurt Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Hurt Morality | Patton Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so happy that's a tag, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Panic Attacks, Rescue Missions, Romance, Separations, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Torture, Unethical Experimentation, Violence, Whump, it's not too slow, not good things mind you, pretty gay ngl, the boyos are h u r t, things happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 55,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYesterdayShow/pseuds/TheYesterdayShow
Summary: “Who's there?” he asked, his voice quivering. “I can't—I can't see. I can't see you.”Even after they'd taken the bandages off his eyes, Virgil had been unable to see anything. The first week, his eyes had burned and itched. He'd restrained himself from scratching, but now he wasn't sure if it would have made a difference. He had lost his sight, and with it his whole world.Virgil let himself be wrapped in the hug, arms awkwardly against his chest. The person smelled like soap and dust and immediately warmed him. Virgil relished the fiery contact, pushing his head up into the person's shoulder and sighing. For the first time in weeks, he felt safe.In which kidnappings, unethical experiments, and falling in love without language occur. Content warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter!
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 560
Kudos: 490





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just to preface, I'd like to warn that there will be cult content in this work. I am in no way endorsing cults, nor am I criticizing anyone's religion. The intent of this work is to entertain, so please enjoy!
> 
> Content warning: Food, inflicted blindness, imprisonment

Virgil wasn’t expecting a roommate.

He had no idea how long he’d been here, but he’d been alone for a while. He’d been quarantined for what was definitely quite a few days, and experimented on before that—Virgil didn’t want to think about that.

He hadn't known he had a roommate until someone brushed up against him as he curled up on the cold floor. He couldn't find the bed, otherwise that was where he'd lie. But something touched him and he reared back, ready to attack.

Whatever it was didn't touch him again, and Virgil slowly let himself relax. The sudden movement had sent a migraine to pound at the walls of his head. He groaned and let his head rest on the cold floor beneath him, before hearing some rustling. He jerked right back up, flinching again when something heavy fell on him. A blanket.

“Hello?” he ventured. No answer. For a moment, Virgil was certain he was making it all up, that he had gotten the blanket himself but had forgotten. Then another noise—a scuffle, the sound of someone sitting nearby. A hand touched his shoulder, and Virgil did everything in his power to not draw back.

“Who's there?” he asked, his voice quivering. “I can't—I can't see. I can't see you.”

Even after they'd taken the bandages off his eyes, Virgil had been unable to see anything. The first week, his eyes had burned and itched. He'd restrained himself from scratching, but now he wasn't sure if it would have made a difference. He had lost his sight, and with it his whole world.

The hand didn't leave his shoulder, and Virgil reached out cautiously. His hands met something solid—a person? Yes, a person, and Virgil's hands clutched desperately at their shirt. He hadn't had safe human contact in so long. . . . The person seemed to understand that, and gently placed his arms around Virgil. Virgil let himself be wrapped in the hug, arms awkwardly against his chest. The person smelled like soap and dust and immediately warmed him. Virgil relished the fiery contact, pushing his head up into the person's shoulder and sighing. For the first time in weeks, he felt safe.

The person pulled back and Virgil floundered, reaching again into the empty air. A hand caught his and held it still. Virgil frowned, confused. What was happening? Were they not supposed to know about each other? Was the person about to lead him back into that room, the bright one where they leaned over him and—

Virgil wrenched his brain away from that train of thought. He needed to focus on the here and now, not the terrifying past. Starting with who the other person in the room was. Said other person suddenly let go off his hand and pulled him close again. Virgil decided to not worry about who they were or why they were both here, and melted into the person's chest.

-

When Virgil woke up, he blinked blearily before remembering that he couldn't see. Someone—the person from the previous day—was still holding him, but his slow breathing indicated that he was asleep. At some point, they'd moved to a bed. It was nice, all things considered. He wasn't alone, he was in a soft bed with a soft person, and he had no need to go anywhere anytime soon.

A loud _clang!_ interrupted his drowsy thoughts and he jerked up, feeling the person beside him stir in their sleep.

“Hello?” Virgil said, his voice shaking. No answer. His roommate sat up beside him and placed a gentle hand on his back, calm and reassuring. Then the person slid out of bed and seemingly vanished—Virgil could no longer reach them, no matter how far he stretched out his arms. He whimpered unwillingly, then covered his mouth. No use seeming weak. A little voice in his head reminded him that he'd certainly done worse than whimper when they'd taken his sight.

A terrifying moment later, a hand was on his arm and guiding him into a standing position. Virgil stumbled a bit, but allowed himself to be led across the room until the person eased him to the ground.

As it turned out, there was food there, laid out on a tray. Virgil felt his way around the tray before lifting what he was certain was a spoon, letting the other person place a bowl on his lap. It was full of instant mashed potatoes, Virgil soon discovered. He hadn't really been focusing on his stomach, but he realized some sustenance would be nice. While he ate, the other person traced seemingly random patterns on his wrist.

The bowl with mashed potatoes was pulled away from him, then returned but filled with canned beans. Virgil grimaced: he'd never been one for beans, but at least they were warm. It struck him as he ate that he had no idea what time it was. Was this an odd breakfast, or a poor dinner? It reminded him of something his dorm mate might have made—and just like that, tears were forming and his nose was burning.

Why did they take him? Out of every twenty-something person they could've kidnapped to fulfill their sick desires of blinding someone, why him? Virgil missed home, he missed school, he missed his obnoxious dorm mate, he missed his terrible paying job making terrible pizzas—

The bowl was gently pulled from him and Virgil willingly fell into the person's arms. He sobbed into their shoulder, lost and sad and homesick. How many times had he cried alone in the past month? How many times had he longed for human contact only to wrap his arms around himself? Now he cuddled closer into the warm weight of another human being, gripping as tight as he could.

The other person lightly placed a kiss into Virgil's hair and Virgil felt safe, and warm, and still so so awful but also _okay_.

Virgil pulled back and fumbled around for the bowl again, still sniffling as he took another bite. The person continued to trace the patterns into his wrist, slow and soft. Over and over. Familiar, like they had no meaning yet every meaning simultaneously. Over and over and over. . . .

That was—repetition? Did the pattern start over? Virgil set down the bowl and placed his hand on the other person's, who immediately stilled.

“Come on, do it again,” Virgil croaked. He gestured at his wrist, trying to get his meaning across. “I wanna feel it.”

Slowly, the patterns started up again, and Virgil traced along with them.

a _. . . b . . . c . . . d. . . ._

The alphabet. The person hadn't spoken at all thus far, and Virgil felt unbelievably ecstatic about this form of communication. He pushed his hand into the other person's, food forgotten in the giddy anticipation of someone talking to him. Old Virgil would have scoffed, unimpressed at his thirst for human contact. Old Virgil wanted to be alone. Old Virgil hadn't spent weeks alone in darkness.

Virgil could pick out some of the letters the person traced, but the rest felt like random scribbling. He definitely felt an 'a', and an 'o', and then an 'n', but the rest was unclear. He shrugged, then put his hand over theirs again.

This time he could feel the letters more clearly, as the other person carefully guided his hand.

_P-a-t-t-o-n_.

-

_V-i-r-g-i-l_ , Virgil spelled. _V-i-r-g-i-l_.

_V . . . i . . . n . . . y . . . l . . . l_.

“No, Virgil, not vinyl,” Virgil groaned. _V-i-r-g-i-l_.

_V . . . i . . . r . . . g . . . i . . . l_.

“Yes, yes yes!” Virgil impulsively hugged the man whose arm he'd been spelling on a second earlier. His name was Patton, and through much trial and error, Virgil had discovered that Patton was about his age and could see. Why he wasn't talking was a mystery that he hadn't decoded yet.

Virgil and Patton had been curled up on the bed for hours, tracing into each others' arms. It was mostly the alphabet, over and over again as they tried to instinctually recognize the letters. It was slow going, but Virgil felt they'd gotten far enough for his name—and they had. It exhausted both of them, he was sure, so he wasn't surprised when Patton fell asleep, him following shortly.

The past few days had been too short, it seemed, after the unbelievable length of the month he'd spent alone. Hours of tracing and sleeping and eating and just touching helped the days fly by. Every day Patton held Virgil steady as the walked the perimeter of the room, one hand on the smooth wall, the other clenched into Patton's shirt. He was slowly beginning to envision their cell in his mind's eye. He knew how many steps it was from the door to the beds—because there were two of them, apparently, though Virgil spent most of his time on the same bed as Patton. When it was night, he couldn't bear to let Patton go, afraid he'd wake up alone again, not able to find anyone. On nights when the fear was particularly bad, Patton held him to his chest and wiped the tears away.

They were almost constantly touching, in some way. When they were both mentally worn from the struggle of communicating, they often lay on the floor, hands entwined. In those moments, Virgil let his mind explore beyond the room, sometimes imagining himself to be a great wizard or adventurer. He went on grand quests to retrieve lost treasures, journeyed into caverns that dripped with shadows. Most of the time, though, he imagined he was going about his normal life. He pictured his dorm mate, the paths he'd take to school. He thought about the tree that grew outside his window, the aloe vera on his desk that was somehow managing to survive. Those bittersweet thoughts always led to a wave of homesickness, and Virgil would find himself curling into Patton's arms to cry.

Now, though, Virgil woke up slowly, automatically squeezing his grip to make sure he was still holding Patton's hand. The man squeezed back, then spelled something onto his arm.

_V-i-r-g-i-l_.

Virgil smiled sleepily and spelled back: _P-a-t-t-o-n_. Who was he to break morning routine?

_F-o-o-d-s-h-e-r-e_ , Patton spelled out slowly, making a slicing motion on his arm to indicate a space between words. Virgil nodded, forestalling the man as he began to spell it again.

“I heard, I heard.”

Over breakfast, Patton continued the alphabet lightly. Virgil tried to keep his arm free, but he needed one hand to hold the bowl and the other to eat the oatmeal, so it wasn't going too well. Soon enough, the tray was taken from them (by the morning food-bringer, Virgil was beginning to be able to tell their footsteps apart) and Patton squeezed him in a brief hug before taking Virgil's hand and placing it over his own, tracing more letters onto Virgil's skin.

_I-a-m-d-e-a-f_.

That couldn't be right. Virgil wracked his brain, trying to think of which letter he misinterpreted. Before he could pick it out, though, Patton was tracing again.

_I-a-m-d-e-a-f_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially was anticipating about 10 chapters for this, but it has lengthened indeterminably! So yay, more story! I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> CW: kidnapping, food mention, inflicted blindness

Patton had always been, in general, a happy person. Sure, he couldn’t hear. His father, however, had always taught him that a disability was only an ability with extra letters.

He’d never been allowed to learn how to read lips—it was something he’d read about, but knew he couldn’t figure out without a teacher. The one time he’d asked Father, the man had grabbed his hands and pulled him into the hall closet, quickly signing to never bring it up again.

Father had homeschooled Patton—not unusual, everyone in the Haven homeschooled, but what was unusual was that they also home-churched. Everyone else went to chapel, so why couldn’t they? Father never explained why.

Patton didn’t see much of anyone else. As a child, he played outside with the other children in the Haven, but soon they ignored him in favor of their hearing friends. He saw people at the socials, but Father tended to guide him away from the big conversations, letting him know that what they were talking about wasn’t important.

While a little lonely, life was fine. Patton had Father to talk to, books to read, and a house to live in. He had a job washing dishes in the Haven’s charity hall, mostly so that he wouldn’t be alone while Father was at work. Father worked at the Lab in the center of the Haven, a very prestigious job that made him well-regarded in the community. Life was fine. Everything was fine.

Until one day, it wasn’t.

That day, Patton walked home from work to find Father hurriedly packing a bag, his lab coat and tie askew.

That day, as Patton tried to get his father’s attention so he could ask what was wrong, the burly perimeter guards of the Haven shoved Patton out of the way.

That day, the last thing Patton saw of his father was a quick flash of his hands as they dragged him away— _I love you_.

-

Patton had gotten on decently for the past year without Father. He continued to go to work, continued to study the Haven’s theology. He missed dinner, where the chairs would both be filled. He missed sitting in Father’s room on the bed, looking over a book together. Sometimes, Father would get out the big book of maps that he kept behind the bookcase and show Patton how big the world was.

Now Patton realized how big the world was without his father to fill it.

Patton attended chapel every Sunday now, even though he had no idea what was going on. The prayers were weird, once he realized they were prayers. It was nothing like Father had taught him—there was more pounding on pulpits and angry faces then he was used to. There was much more hand-holding, much more mouth-moving. Sometimes, there was even crying, but Patton didn’t know why. Still, every Sunday morning he put on one of Father’s many blue ties and walked to the center of the Haven for church, just beside the Lab.

That was how they got him.

-

It started out as a normal Sunday.

The alarm clock on the his pillow vibrated, and Patton gradually woke up. He rolled out of bed and put on his nicest clothes, brushing his teeth soon after. He didn’t eat breakfast or lunch on Sundays—no one in the Haven did, that time was reserved for fasting.

It still felt wrong, disturbing the dust in Father’s room just to get one of his ties. He supposed he could move the ties, if it bothered him that much, but Patton couldn’t bear to move what was lodged so firmly in his memories. Hardly anything in Father’s room was touched, and he intended to keep it that way. He had unpacked the suitcase Father had been hurrying to fill on that last day—it was mostly food and some clothes, with a blue pocket-sized notebook that only had nonsense scribbling in it. Patton kept it in his pocket at all times, and now slipped it into his khakis (his only nice pants, he daily wore Haven-made jeans and the khakis were one of his only possessions from outside the perimeter).

Tie tied, Patton started the short walk to church.

Church was as usual, but for some reason more uncomfortable than it had been so far—which was saying something. Now, though, Patton felt as if he was being watched. He shook it off as nonsense. Everyone knew who he was, just as he knew who everybody was. The Haven wasn’t very large, after all.

Patton left just before church ended—he often left during the last hymn, it generally got very confusing after that—and discovered that he was not the only one who left early, as a sack was pulled over his head. He struggled for a moment, before the woozy smell of the inside of the sack hit him and he was out like a light.

-

The first thing Patton did when he woke up was cough.

The second thing was take in his surroundings. He was in a small room, plaster walls and concrete floor painted grey. He was on a bed, and there was another pushed up against the wall on his right. A heavy-looking door was set into the wall opposite, with what looked almost like a locked doggy door in the foot of it. Other than the beds, the only break in the monotony of the room was a curtained-off segment with a toilet and sink—if you could call it a sink. It was more of a faucet sticking out of the wall, a shelf with a bar of soap beside it.

That first day, Patton wandered the room, pressing every spot on the wall, knocking on the door, pushing at the flap in the door. Nothing budged. Eventually, he retired to the bed he’d woken up in, the true magnitude of his situation hitting him all at once. He managed to retain composure until he checked his pocket—they had taken Father’s notebook. Patton cried for hours.

Every day passed similarly. At first, it took Patton a long time to figure out the day and night schedule, but eventually he trained his body to wake up when the meal that felt most like breakfast was pushed through the flap. He’d been there, wallowing in his boredom, for maybe two weeks when the man was pushed in.

Patton was on the bed when it happened. The people that dragged him in wore masks, but Patton still recognized them from their hair—Brother Gracer, from next door; Brother Hadley, from the charity hall. They left the man curled up on the floor, not even sparing a glance in Patton’s direction before leaving once again.

The man was dressed in Outsider clothes—a black hoodie with purple patches, soft-looking jeans. Like Patton, he didn’t wear shoes—but Patton had to wonder if they’d been taken from him too, or if he’d never had any in the first place.

While he stared, frozen in shock, the man moved. He carefully stood, wavering dangerously, and on his first step stumbled and hit the floor. Patton winced, but the man got back up and tried again. This time he managed two steps before falling. He wasn’t coming anywhere near Patton—he was actually facing the direction of the door—but Patton pressed himself against the wall anyway. Everyone in the Haven had an uneasy fear of Outsiders. They were rash and sinful, and would stop at nothing to drag everyone down with them.

The man seemed to realize that he wasn’t able to walk, because now he was crawling, one arm outstretched and shaking. His fingers slammed into the door moments later, and the man recoiled before falling again. This time, he didn’t try to get back up, instead curling on his side. It took Patton a couple of minutes to realize the man was sniffling—maybe crying, maybe cold.

Yes, it was an Outsider, but everyone got cold or sad, didn’t they? Everyone needed help. A few minutes more, and Patton had gathered enough strength to slip off the bed and pad across the floor. Before he lost his nerve, he reached down and poked the Outsider’s shoulder. The man gasped and reared back, preparing to attack, and Patton jumped away. It wouldn’t do to make him angry. Still, though, the man looked cold, and that was something Patton knew he could fix.

He debated for a second over whether to get his own blanket or the one off the untouched bed—but that one was coated in dust, and for all Patton knew, the man was allergic to dust, so he grabbed his own.

It was vaguely reminiscent of creeping up behind a lion, Patton thought as he held the blanket out in front of him. The man was slowly relaxing, stretching a bit as he lay his head back on the floor. Before he could change his mind, Patton threw the blanket on top of him.

The man flinched, arms raised, then slowly sat up. He pulled the blanket around himself closer, but shivered still.

Patton was enthralled by this man. He’d only met two Outsiders before, both of them looking to sell things and investigate the life of the Haven. Neither of them had ever attacked him, and this man hadn’t so far. Patton sat down opposite him, then reached out a hand to his shoulder.

For the first time, Patton could see his face. Before, he’d been turned away or his strangely long hair had been hiding his features. Now though, Patton could see his trembling lips, his small nose, his pale skin, his cloudy grey eyes.

The man’s mouth moved, and his eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over at the slightest provocation. Patton smiled slightly and tapped his own ears. This man, strange as he was, needed a hug, a Patton was the perfect person to give him one.

When Patton pulled back, he tapped his ears again, but the man didn’t seem to see. His eyes were focused at a point slightly to the right of Patton, and one arm flailed out, as if trying to find him again. Patton grabbed it, quieting the frantic fingers as his father might have when he was signing too much in public. Could the man see him?

Cautiously, Patton waved his other hand in front of the man’s face, watching for any movement from those eyes. Nothing. Now that he looked closer, he noticed that what he’d first thought were bags under his eyes were bruises. The man couldn’t see.

Well, they were two peas in a pod, weren’t they? Patton tried not to think about how they would communicate as he pulled the man into another hug. They’d figure everything out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I’m really enjoying writing this! We’re almost to some exciting stuff–next chapter is going to be big (and boy, the chapter after that…)! This chapter is a bit shorter than the past two, but 4 and 5 will more than make up for it in length! Hope you enjoy!

Knowing that Patton was deaf didn’t change much. Virgil still talked—possibly even more than he had before. They would sit, curled into each other, and Virgil would talk and talk and talk. He told stories, he talked about his roommate, he did his best to recount _The Hunger Games_ from memory. He went over rules of the English language, tried to recall the periodic table of elements. All the while, Patton had a hand on his chest and the other on his cheek, feeling the vibrations and presumably watching his mouth.

Every day, they ate three meals that were suspiciously similar to those of the previous day.

Every day, they had a slowly lengthening work-out routine, now with thirty jumping jacks and five push-ups, followed by twenty lunges.

Every day, they spent hours tracing the alphabet onto each others’ arms. Every day, they got better at spelling and understanding, sometimes getting whole sentences out before having to repeat something.

Virgil eventually found himself growing bored of the monotony. He no longer feared for his life, as he had the first month of captivity. He hadn’t been so much as touched by anyone other than Patton. The food was fine, the living conditions were acceptable. He knew the room well enough by now that he could walk without Patton’s help, but chose not to. He was still held captive by the irrational fear that Patton would disappear if he let go of him. Even when in the poor excuse for a bathroom, Patton tapped lightly on the curtain to a regular tempo, letting Virgil hear his presence.

Every day was the same without fail.

Until one day, the schedule changed.

On that day, Virgil was woken up by a hand tugging on his wrist. He barely had time to trace a ’ _?_ ’ on the arm, which was hurriedly responded to with a ’ _P_ ’ before pulling him out of bed. He was less worried now, knowing it was Patton waking him up and not some dangerous stranger. Then he was stumbling across the room, on track for the door, and then—what? Where was the door?

Virgil tripped out of his surprise, almost introducing his face to whatever floor he was hurrying across. Where were they? The room wasn’t this long. Were they out?

He started slapping at Patton’s arm frantically, trying to get the man to stop moving and talk to him. Where were they? How did they get out of the room?

Finally Patton stopped, and Virgil could feel the excitement practically bleed out of him.

_W-h-e-r-e a-r-e w-e ?_

A hesitation, then Patton responded.

_O-u-t. R-o-o-m w-i-t-h b-o-o-k-s._

Just books? Why were they here, then? Who let them out?

 _G-u-a-r-d g-u-i-d-e_ , Patton spelled as if he could hear Virgil’s thoughts. _G-o b-a-c-k._

After a moment, Patton gently took his hand and led him again, albeit more slowly this time. Virgil knew he was in a different place—or had been—but it felt the same. There was no change of air, no different smell. For the first time since he’d met Patton, Virgil felt hopelessness turn his bones to lead. Soon enough, they were back to the room, Patton taking him on a quick round of the room to let him know where they were. Then Patton pulled him to the floor and began excitedly tracing.

_I got a book! Do you want me to spell it to you?_

Virgil nodded animatedly, before actually thinking about it. Surely that would kill Patton’s hands. He shook his head, then spelled out _I don’t want to bother you_.

Patton responded by pulling Virgil’s hand up to his mouth, tracing it along what was almost certainly a smile. Without saying anything else, he began the book.

_A girl came out of lawyer Royall’s house, at the end of the one street of North Dormer… ._

-

They didn’t even get all the way through chapter one before they were both too mentally exhausted to continue. They lay like they sometimes did, hands loosely clasped, feet barely entwined. Patton had picked up on the fact that too much physical contact at once overwhelmed Virgil, but also understood that he wasn’t willing to go with zero contact at any time.

Virgil talked again, repeating things that he’d already said. It didn’t matter—Patton couldn’t hear.

“So then Roman took one look at the guy and said to me, ‘he’s hot.’ I was like, whatever. I’m not sure what he saw in the dude, he was pretty average looking. Roman’s attracted to guys with vitiligo or birthmarks, though, so I guess that already colored him green in his book. Colored him green—who says that? Nobody, probably. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, Ro was really into this dude, and he finally got all that swagger that he sometimes gets, like I told you the other day? So he walked up to this guy and asked his name. I think he was planning on making up a pick-up line? Afterwards, he wouldn’t tell me what happened, but he was rejected big time. He was taking over our whole dorm room moping for the next week before he asked me to go talk to the guy.”

Virgil shifted a bit, trying not to move Patton’s hand from his chest. He always let it rest there when Virgil was talking.

“So the guy’s name was Janus. Yeah, he was sort of distant and rude, but Roman normally only talks about his newest crush for three days. He’d lasted a month, so I figured it was sort of permanent. So I told him Roman wouldn’t leave me alone until the two of them went on a date, and Janus agreed to ask him out if I gave him three of my meals. Not a problem—I wasn’t gonna eat nineteen meals that week anyway. It was a mistake, I guess, because the next thing I knew they were dating and I was still hearing Roman obsess over him, but now it wasn’t as creepy because it was mutual. And sometimes I’d get back, with plans to listen to music and think about doing my homework, and they’d just be making out on his bed. I almost bought them a 'do not disturb’ sign, but it’s my room too, y'know? I have rights.”

A wave of sadness hit him. He never thought he’d miss his roommate publicly making out with his weird boyfriend, but here he was.

It was definitely time to stop talking, though. Water was only accessible through meals or the sink in the sectioned-off corner, and he didn’t feel like getting Patton up just because he had a sore throat.

 _O-k-?_ Patton spelled sleepily. Virgil pressed his knuckles into Patton’s wrist, their agreed-upon sign for 'yes’. He knew they ought to get into the bed, but he really didn’t feel like getting up. Maybe they could sleep on the floor.

Patton seemed to feel the same way, curling right into his side and settling in. For all he missed in the past, Virgil wouldn’t take it all back if it meant he would lose Patton. He let his hand card through the man’s hair gently, then sighed. Sure, life sucked. But they had each other.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter! This one’s a bit more intense than the last two have been, so be careful. Just let me know if I missed anything in the content warnings!
> 
> cw: food, suicidal thoughts and measures (in the form of a lack of self-care), starving oneself (as an act of defiance)

Time passed. Days, weeks, perhaps even months. Slower than either of them would have liked, but it did pass. Virgil sometimes laughed at the thought of someone watching them communicate—the precise spelling had begun to evolve into complex combinations of squiggles and pats, a sort of shorthand, their fingers blurs as they spoke the language they were inventing. It was slower than speaking loud, and probably slower than sign language, but much faster than the spelling of every individual letter that they’d begun with. The two men were connected in some strange way, almost knowing the other’s meaning before it was spoken.

Every night before falling asleep, both would flick the each others’ wrists (their sign for ‘pay attention’), then press their knuckles into each others’ arm. Virgil wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but for him it meant a mix of 'good night’ and 'I’ll be there when you wake up’.

Then one day, Patton was not there when he woke up.

Virgil tried to refrain from freaking out. Patton was probably just in the sectioned-off area, everything would be fine. Virgil took in a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself enough that he could hear over the pounding of his own heart. “Patton?” he called out, knowing the other man couldn’t hear him. A _clang!_ shot through the air; Virgil leaped out of bed and drew his fists up to his face, rocking back on his heels. Fight-or-flight had kicked in, and fight won out. As he waited, though, nothing happened. No familiar arms pulled his hands down, silently whispering words of comfort. No rough hands grabbed him and dragged him away. Nothing.

Moments later, his heart slowed slightly and Virgil realized that the noise that had scared him so badly was the chute opening to drop food in. And Patton still wasn’t there, Patton who normally woke him up wasn’t there to hold him and let him know that everything would be all right and with a shock, instead of blind panic, Virgil noticed his face heating.

Did he … did he have a crush on Patton?

 _Now we don’t have time to unpack all of that_ , his mind helpfully supplied. Virgil snorted before striding toward the curtain in the corner, waving around it before eventually pulling it back and stepping in.

Patton wasn’t there.

“Patton?” Virgil called again, his walking no much less steady than a few moments before. He checked the spare bed, then walked the room in a sweep. Nothing, there was nothing, Virgil was all alone again after months of having someone to hold him and he couldn’t handle it. There was a tray of food on the floor, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat anything, a pit of anxiety boiling in his stomach. After sweeping the room three more times, Virgil curled up on the still-warm bed, choking out a few despairing sobs. He was alone, he was all alone and soon the rough people with mean voices would grab him and drag him away to that room, that room where—

Virgil wrenched his mind away from that train of thought, knowing that the blurry memories of the room would only scare him more. He had to keep a clear head, figure out how to get out of here and save Patton.

So, naturally, Virgil pulled the blanket over his head and sobbed.

-

Hours passed, and still Virgil didn’t come out. He didn’t know why; some instinctive part of him insisting that he stay hidden, perhaps, but it wasn’t like the blanket was stopping him from seeing any threats. If anything, it was muffling his hearing. It didn’t seem to matter, though, as he was left alone all day and night. At intervals he knew he should be expecting, the metal flap at the base of the door would unlock and make a loud noise as a food tray was pushed in or pulled out, but no one ever entered the room.

Virgil never got up to eat, though he knew he should. It gave him some sense of satisfaction to know that they wanted him to eat, and it was in his power to refuse it. Hopefully he was making more of a statement than throwing a fit.

“I’ll eat if you bring Patton back,” he croaked out, pulling the blanket down enough for his head to pop out. There had to be a camera somewhere in this room, even if Patton had never mentioned one. He cleared his throat. “Seriously, that’s the only way you’re gonna get me to eat. Bring him back.”

Nothing. The thought struck Virgil that maybe they didn’t care about whether or not he ate, but he shoved it away. If they didn’t care, they’d stop giving him food. Another thought—what if Patton escaped? Virgil threatening his own health would just make them look for Patton harder, and he didn’t want Patton back here.

Right?

Well, no. He wanted Patton free, yes. But … if he wasn’t free, then couldn’t he be here? Just thinking that made Virgil feel guilt tear at his insides. Of course he would give up Patton if he had the chance to be free! Of course he would!

Virgil physically shook his head, then pulled the blanket back over himself. He was going to sleep, because then he could escape his own head. Patton usually was there to help if he was anxious, but before… .

Before was so long ago. What had he done before? He’d normally just … dealt with it, hadn’t he? He’d had Patton there to work through it with him for so long, he could barely imagine doing it by himself again.

In time, Virgil fell into a restless sleep, tossing and turning with nobody to ground himself to.

-

Virgil was hungry.

Nine meals had passed since Patton had disappeared. That was a full three days, and Virgil was beginning to wonder if he would be able to hold out until Patton came back. He’d been drinking cupped handfuls of water from the tiny sink behind the curtain, but his legs were growing too weak to walk across the room to it. The most recent time—several hours previous—he’d fallen halfway there and crawled the rest of the way, pulling himself up onto the toilet to even reach the faucet. Then he’d dragged himself back to the bed, forgoing the easier task of resting on the closer, unused bed for the one he and Patton had shared.

Come to think of it, why had they shared a bed? The mattresses were twin-sized, there was no way that had been comfortable.

Again, Virgil weighed his options. They hadn’t pulled away the meal tray yet, so he could roll out of bed one more time and get something to eat, keep his strength up. More importantly, though, what was the point?

Without Patton, Virgil had nothing. No hope. No eyesight. No one to talk to. No one to hold him when his nightmares got particularly bad. Absolutely no one, and Virgil was a nobody, so it all worked out. Whether or not Patton came back, Virgil was certain they were watching him. Studying him. Whatever they did to his eyes, they did it on purpose and now they were watching to see what he’d do. Well, it was too bad for them, because Virgil would rather die than let them win. In all honesty, he’d rather die than do a lot of things, but this one was the most important at the moment. So they thought they could take Patton away from him? He was going to take himself away from them.

His mind made up, Virgil rolled over to face the wall, despite the fact that being turned away from the door caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. It didn’t matter anyway, he couldn’t see any signs of an attacker. Besides, he didn’t care who came in unless it was Patton.

Die out of spite? Virgil was pretty sure he could do that.

-

Virgil’s plan to die out of spite was cut short the next morning, about an hour after the tenth meal was pushed in.

He’d been seriously reconsidering his death, but Virgil was nothing if not stubborn. Not to mention he wasn’t sure he even had the strength to get out of bed by now. He was contemplating what he’d say to Roman if he were here, when a loud noise roused him from his daydream.

A thud and a cry met his ears, then the same slamming noise as before—surely the door closing. The voice was recognizable too, but Virgil couldn’t let his hopes get up; many times before, Patton had laughed wheezily, as if he wasn’t sure that a laugh was supposed to have sound (which was probably on the nose), and even more often, he’d made unconscious noises of exclamation. That was his voice, the sound Patton would make if he were thrown to the ground.

Thrown to the ground—?!

Virgil rolled out of bed, almost forgetting his weakness, and crawled in the direction of the hitching breaths until his reaching fingers met fabric. Quicker than he knew he could move, Virgil found the person’s arm and flicked his wrist, then pressed his knuckles up against it. It had to be Patton, he’d know that arm anywhere, and sure enough, the person’s fingers traced a light _P_ into Virgil’s arm.

Virgil realized, suddenly, that he was crying, babbling Patton’s name over and over again as he pulled Patton into his lap, freezing when the other man hissed in pain.

 _You okay?_ Virgil spelled onto Patton’s arm, hoping it was nothing too bad. There was a long moment in which Patton didn’t move, and Virgil held his breath.

_Put stuff in my ears. Hurts._

Virgil let out a choked cry, then hugged Patton as gently as he could. At that moment, he was reminded of exactly how jelly-like his bones felt. He reached out, and as he assumed, the tray with breakfast was just beside them.

Virgil ate slowly, supporting Patton so that he could eat as well, though he claimed to not feel like it. Virgil made sure to leave half even so.

“I’ve got you,” Virgil muttered as he helped Patton to the bed. “Don’t worry, we’ll make it through this. We’ve got each other. We can survive.”

Virgil didn’t know if he was talking to Patton (who couldn’t hear him), or himself, but it didn’t really matter. They were together. Everything was so much better than it had been alone, and everything was going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'everything was going to be okay' pfffft think again emo


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I legitimately feel sorry about this chapter! It wasn’t meant to be this intense, just lightly angsty. Virgil really threw himself under the angst bus for this one so buckle up y’all
> 
> cw: gagging, unethical eye operations (not in great detail), panic attack, kidnapping, by a cult specifically, character being restrained (both on a table and not), brief mention of blood, fever, intense pain, vomit, that’s a lot of warnings, passing mention of drugs, singular mention of an IV, surgical implications

Everything was decidedly not going to be okay, Virgil realized several days later when he was rudely awoken by rough hands pulling him out of bed and out the door before he could say a word. He opened his mouth to scream and had a rag stuffed in it, which was also rude.

While being dragged down a hallway, Virgil took the moment to reflect on his current mental state, which was scarily calm considering what was happening. Shock, probably. Even more likely was the overwhelming gratitude he was feeling that it was him leaving the safety of the room, not Patton. That gratitude gave way to fear (finally) as he was brought into another room, one with a distinctly medical smell.

The room. Not the room, please, not the place where his eyes burned and he could hear himself screaming but was fairly detached, watching from the side as the men and women in white coats leaned over him and measured his reaction. The place where he was left alone, for weeks, as his eyes slowly healed but never saw again. The place where they had strapped him down, hadn’t drugged him even as he struggled and sobbed with pain—

They were doing that now, Virgil realized with a start, and he began to fight, trying to force them away and roll off the table, but they already had his ankles secured.

“Get that out of his mouth, we’re not monsters.”

Virgil would have cried at hearing words that didn’t come from his own mouth if he weren’t already crying. The rag was pulled from between his teeth, and he gasped out incomplete sentences of pleas and desperation.

“Virgil, is it?” a woman said.

“My name, that’s my name,” Virgil sobbed, almost incoherently. No one had said it in so long, he almost wanted them to say it again.

“Well Virgil, we’re here to help. All we need you to do is lie still.”

Virgil would have promised anything, but he was suddenly aware of the fact that they had finished strapping him down. He didn’t have a choice here. He tried to calm his hitching sobs, aware that he definitely looked not only like a fool, but weak.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” he asked pitifully. There were several long moments of silence. Then the same woman before spoke, saying eerily familiar words.

“We’re going to fix you, in the name of the Prophets.”

Virgil screamed.

-

_Virgil had been in the back of this van for far too long. His mind was still in overdrive with fear, but now he could wonder—why had he been kidnapped? There was nothing special about him. He was just like any other college kid, trying to make his way in life with money in the negative and relationships even lower. The only person who might care about him was his roommate Roman, but he also had no money and therefore would never be able to pay a ransom. Not to mention, Roman was promising. He was only failing geology, he’d just gotten a role in a production at the high end theater across town, and he had a boyfriend who definitely didn’t care about Virgil._

_There was nothing he could do to escape whatever awful fate these strangers had for him. They didn’t look too dangerous, all four men wearing square-looking jeans and plain t-shirts, but none of them had very built figures. Only one looked like he worked out, which was a testament to the fact that Virgil was a pathetic weakling. He should’ve splurged and bought that gym membership._

_The van stopped for hours at one point, Virgil assumed in a hotel parking lot or something. He would’ve liked to get out of the cramped space, but it was clear that wasn’t happening any time soon. His hands were tied to his ankles (a fact that had sent him into more than one panic attack) and both were pulled behind his back in a hog tie, and a bandana was bundled up in his mouth and tied around the back of his head. He could tell it was night; some of the light from the part of the van with seats filtered in during the day. It was nice to have a little light. Darkness scared him—he always slept with the blinds on the window turned to let some moonlight in, now that he was far too old for a nightlight. Now, however, there was zero light and Virgil was barely keeping himself from freaking out. He just had to survive the night, then nothing would ever be dark again._

_They were back on the road. The men chatted loudly, but so many of the words seemed to have a different context for them than they did for him. Haven? Blessings? Liberating? It sounded like a cult, and Virgil once again attempted to free himself of the ropes. The only thing he gained was rope burn._

_When the door opened and Virgil blinked at the sudden light and wave of heat, he had to assume they’d arrived. Instead of moving (or shooting) him, two people stared. A man and a woman, the man in a simple suit, the woman in an even simpler dress. Sweat trickled down Virgil’s temple as he stared back at them, his jaw aching and limbs strained._

_“This one will do,” the woman said eventually. The man nodded agreement, and then the ones that had kidnapped him in the first place were dragging him out of the van. Virgil maintained eye contact with the two as he passed. What did that mean? What did they need him for?_

_The sun beat down on them as the four men carried Virgil across a dirt road. There were small, one-story houses lining the street, but nobody outside. Virgil only had a moment to wonder why before he was being ushered into a large building. It was cooler inside than out, but still stuffy, like the air conditioning was one of those old window units._

_He was carried into a room that smelled like a hospital—and looked like one. The counters were laden with different tools that he had no idea what they were to be used for, but looked vaguely like they belonged in a horror movie. The four men rolled him onto the operating table in the center of the room, then set to work untying him. Virgil lay still, hoping to trick them into thinking he would be compliant. He’d wait until his legs were free, then start fighting back._

_That was a no-go, as it turned out. The men easily grabbed his legs and pulled a strap over them, securing him into place. He managed to flail his fist into one person’s nose, and felt a deep satisfaction when the man doubled over, bleeding. It was quickly snuffed out as the other three got a hold of his arms and strapped them down as well. Then they all left, even the man Virgil had hit, shutting the door and leaving him alone._

_Virgil’s eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. The only sound was his heavy breathing. He flexed his fingers and toes a few times, trying to get feeling back into them. He groaned deep in his throat as they began to tingle, then ache. He shifted a little, the sweat pooling under his shirt and hoodie making him supremely uncomfortable._

_The door opened with a bang, startling Virgil enough that he jumped. Quite a few—seven, maybe—people in white lab coats entered, the last man wearing plain clothes and looking less like a nerd than the others and more like a bodyguard. Virgil swallowed. What were they going to do to him?_

_“Hello, Virgil,” an older man with a scar on his chin said, smiling too wide. He leaned over the table, and Virgil tried to lean away. The man tsked, his smile dimming slightly._

_“Now, that won’t do. Don’t be scared, Virgil. We aren’t going to hurt you.” The man frowned for a split second, then chuckled. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to lie. This will likely be very painful, Virgil.”_

_Virgil couldn’t force his eyes away from the man’s, cold brown eyes boring into his soul. He felt the fear rise, bubbling out of his throat in a muffled cry, even as a tear slipped out of his eye and rolled toward his temple._

_“We’re going to break you, in the name of the Prophets.”_

_Then they were holding his head still, and—no—no—not his eyes, please, anything else—_

_Virgil screamed._

-

Virgil didn’t know how long he feverishly drifted, but it was certainly hours. His eyes—it was more than burning, somehow. It was the fire of a thousand suns, concentrated in his eye sockets and pounding through his head. All he could feel was the pain, not knowing where he was or aware of any outside stimulus.

The moment Virgil recognized that it was terrifying was the moment that he could feel his fingers. Suddenly, he was no longer a miasma of pain, but a human being (engulfed by pain) again. That was also when he realized there was something pressed up to his lips. He opened his mouth—water, warm and stale but still water—flooded his dry mouth and and he choked as it hit the back of his throat. The bottle was pulled away, and Virgil spluttered for a few moments before all the water was clear of his airway. Exhausted by the fight and debilitated from the pain, Virgil let his eyes slip closed and drifted again.

When he next woke, it was to incomprehensible pain and the sensation of moving, as if whatever he was laying on was being moved. Barely letting himself wonder where he was headed, Virgil drifted again.

The cycle repeated for a while before Virgil found himself fully conscious. It hurt to turn his head, so he laid still, despite all the noises around him. He was shaking constantly, and he was pretty certain he was strapped down. The room wasn’t cold, exactly, but Virgil longed for a blanket, something to perhaps weigh down his legs and ease the quaking.

“Can you hear me?”

Virgil wasn’t sure if the person was talking to him or not, so he didn’t respond. The other noises around the room—a sink running? A quiet conversation?—continued as if nothing happened.

“Can you hear me?”

This time, the voice was louder, and distantly familiar. Virgil nodded slightly, cut short as he grimaced in pain. Moving his head made the pain spike, inducing nausea. Now he felt he was going to throw up, as well as shiver to death. Great.

“Tell me your name.”

“Virgil,” he rasped. He’d never given these people his last name—how they’d found out his first was a mystery to him—but it didn’t quite count as an act of defiance when just saying his first name had sapped all of his energy. He tasted copper in the back of his mouth and wondered vaguely if he’d screamed so much that his throat had bled.

“He’s conscious enough. Try to get him to stand up.”

Virgil was trying to figure out how to respond to this when he registered the sound of Velcro tearing, then hands grabbed his arms and pulled him off of the surface. Immediately his headache spiked, and he cried out, barely aware of his knees buckling and hitting the floor.

A sigh was heard. Virgil sniffed back tears, despite the little voice in the back of his head telling him he had literally zero dignity left. He didn’t want to cry, especially not at just standing up.

Then suddenly, they were moving. Virgil struggled to get his feet underneath him, but failed and resigned himself to being dragged. He was certain he was about to pass out. His head grew fuzzy, limbs filled with pins and needles. The sound of himself being pulled on the concrete was even louder than anything that had just been going on in the room; it filled his ears and pounded along to his heartbeat.

He distantly heard a laugh, then gasped as someone let go and his head cracked against the floor. It wasn’t too bad, he wasn’t very far from the floor anyway, but the pain of the impact still caused him to lose the battle against his stomach, vomiting all over himself and the floor. Some commotion followed that; Virgil’s head was spinning and splitting and his eyes burned and put simply, he couldn’t keep track.

He drifted again, laying on the floor in his own sick, not sure what was real and what wasn’t. Too soon, though, he was brought back to the waking world by a jet of water hitting him square in the stomach. He jerked, then spluttered as the water hit his face. Somehow, while shocking, it was more pleasant than the pain, a nice distraction. That didn’t last, though. Soon enough, Virgil was shivering and numb as the water kept spraying, a sob tearing from his throat as more and more went up his nose.

Finally it stopped, the only sounds being the water dripping from his soaked clothing and his shuddering sobs. Virgil couldn’t stop crying and shaking, and there was only one thought in his head, playing over and over: _I want Patton. Please I want Patton. Please Patton please I want Patton please—_

After what felt like hours of just laying there, hands grabbed his wrists again and began dragging. Virgil didn’t even try to stand, or stop crying. He was so cold. So, so, cold, and he just wanted Patton, just wanted to be safe… .

More noise—so loud—and a little more strain on his arms before he was dropped, palms bouncing lightly off the floor. Virgil wanted to curl up on his side, hoard what little body heat he had, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move, and they were coming closer. His sobs ratcheted up as he just knew they were right above him, holding those tools and moving closer and—

Someone touched him, and Virgil whimpered _loud_. He couldn't—not again—please no, please please _please_ _no_ —

They took his hand and touched his wrist—an IV, they were just putting drugs in him—with warm fingers, tracing something—

Tracing … something… .

 _P-a-t-t-o-n_.

“Patton,” Virgil croaked. Patton was here. Patton was safe, Patton would make everything all right. With that knowledge, Virgil finally fell into a comfortable sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be better for Virge, right?
> 
> Right?
> 
> :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have suddenly found myself with the intense need to rearrange future chapters (of which there are currently five), so some things won’t happen in the same way--but hopefully better ways, if this works out! This shouldn’t delay any chapters lol.
> 
> cw: food mentions, panic, blood mention, unethical surgery/experiments (in the recent past)

Patton had eaten five meals, and Virgil still wasn't back yet. He tried to not panic. His ears and head still ached from whatever operation he'd went through—which he had suspicions about. Were they trying to make him hear? It hadn't worked, if that was it. And if so, were they currently trying to cure Virgil's blindness?

There wasn't much to do, without Virgil there. Patton walked around the room constantly, refusing to pull their book from under the pillow without Virgil there. He made up new signs to teach Virgil when he got back, one for 'hope' and another for 'out' and a third for 'free'. He washed his shirt in the sink, froze when he went to hang it on the unused bed and saw Virgil's hoodie already there. He completely broke down when the next meal arrived, still only one serving on the tray.

After the sixth meal, Patton just stopped. He couldn't imagine life without Virgil, so he just stopped everything. The seventh meal was pushed through the flap, but Patton couldn't find the motivation to get off the bed. He'd never felt this way before—even when Father had been taken, he'd continued to go about his life. He'd been rather disconnected for some time, but he hadn't just fallen apart like this.

What did Virgil mean to him? Patton tried to tell himself to grow up. Why was he this hung up over an Outsider? But Virgil wasn't just an Outsider, wasn't he? Virgil was . . . more. More than a friend, more than anyone in the Haven, more than the so-called 'Prophets' that led them. Virgil made him feel all funny in his stomach when he smiled, made him laugh with his wry looks, made Patton feel safe when he held him. Was that . . . love?

Then the eighth meal didn't arrive when it was supposed to. Patton wasn't sure how he knew that—some sixth sense, probably. It confused him, and just as he was sitting up, the door opened.

Two men dragged a soaked, pale body into the room, and it took Patton far too long to recognize his Virgil. The man was shaking, utterly convulsing, and had it not been for the look that one of the men—'Brother' Coleman, Patton thought snidely—leveled at him, Patton would have already been on the floor, holding Virgil close. Instead, he curled back onto the bed slightly, seeing the men laugh at his submission then leave the room, slamming the door behind them.

Patton dove to the ground and took Virgil by the shoulder, intending to wrap him in a hug. He pulled back as if he'd touched a stove when Virgil violently flinched away. He couldn't hurt him, not Virgil! Still, he needed Virgil to know he was safe. Patton took his wrist as gently as possible, slowly tracing his own name onto Virgil's arm. Virgil relaxed considerably, his mouth moving in the way that Patton knew formed his own name. His screwed-shut eyes relaxed, then his head slumped, his body slowly losing all the tension it had been holding. He was still shuddering, sending droplets of water every which way, but Patton assumed he was asleep.

_I'm sorry, Virgil_. He wasn't strong enough to pick Virgil up, despite being the larger one of the two. Father had never let him build muscles, always signing something about 'being seen as a threat' when Patton asked why. Instead, he eased Virgil out of his sopping t-shirt and jeans and stripped the two blankets from the bed, wrapping him in them instead. For the moment, he left the sopping clothes on the floor as he brushed Virgil's wet hair out of his face. The man's hair had grown too long in the months they'd been captive, almost curling around his shoulders. Virgil's forehead was far too hot (the rest of his body clammy and cold) and Patton could have cried—was crying, because this was the only person who cared about him, the only person he cared about, and he could be dying! They'd hurt Virgil, those _monsters_ , doing it in the name of some stupid religion!

Patton's eyes burned, but he pushed aside his roiling feelings in favor of easing a pillow under Virgil as he noticed how his head was bumping up and down as he shook. Virgil needed his help, and being upset about something he couldn't control wouldn't help him.

Patton gently took Virgil's hand, slowly caressing his knuckles. The man stayed asleep, though the line between his eyes smoothed out just the slightest bit. Another tear slipped from Patton's eye. They'd hurt him, they'd hurt him and they didn't care! Not only had they hurt Virgil, an _Outsider_ —his blood boiled at the term—but they'd hurt Patton, a brother like them!

No, Patton had never been a brother. He was different. Maybe they'd thought if they were able to fix him he could be just like them. As a child, all he'd wanted was to be normal, be like them. Even up until recently he'd wished for it, knowing that if he could hear, they wouldn't have locked him up like this, hurting him in their attempts to make him right.

Now, though, Patton knew he never wanted to be like them. They were terrible; the way they treated Patton had nothing to do with his disability and everything to do with the type of horrible people they were. They preached love and caring, while those who didn't fit precisely into their ideal world were forced to conform or suffer—or both, in his case.

These people, these people that Patton had once considered himself one of, had tortured him—locked him up—kidnapped and tortured Virgil, gods, they were _monsters_!

Patton fully sobbed now, careful to not grip Virgil's hand too tight and wake him up. He had never wanted to leave this place more in his life. If they could get out, everything would be so much better. He would actually be able to take care of Virgil, to keep him safe and close. They would never touch Virgil again.

-

Patton knew when Virgil woke up, as the body beside him began to tremble. After around twenty minutes of Virgil being asleep and Patton rubbing his limbs with one of the blankets, the shaking had begun to die down. Patton hadn't slept at all, his blood still boiling, so he'd been awake hours later when Virgil's flushed face cooled down, the fever breaking.

Now, Patton watched with bated breath as those beautiful, clouded grey eyes flickered open—but they weren't. They were red, bloody, filled with pain. Patton forced himself to not pull back as his stomach lurched. Virgil's brow furrowed deeply, then his eyes closed again as his lips moved.

Patton gripped his wrist gently, letting him know he was there. He quickly spelled out Virgil's name, watching and sighing at the smile that flitted onto Virgil's face. Virgil's hand shakily traced a 'P' back before falling.

The food had arrived not long before, so Patton gently tugged Virgil into his lap and pressed a cup of water to his lips. Virgil obediently took a sip, chest twitching as he almost choked. A quick question of _food?_ had Virgil nodding, so Patton scooped up a small amount of instant mashed potatoes, then another when it was gone. Virgil only managed half the serving before he had to tap out, shaking more than earlier.

Patton knew that it would help Virgil to be on the bed, but with the way his legs were twitching he didn't think it would be wise to try to help him stand. So, he did the only thing he could think of to comfort him—get his hoodie and curl up at his side.

Virgil cried when Patton wrapped the hoodie around him, tugging at Patton's heartstrings. All he wanted in life were two things:

  1. To comfort Virgil in any way possible, and
  2. To get revenge on the bastards that hurt him.



Virgil didn't seem to want to sleep again, so Patton left him for a moment—only a moment, but it had Virgil shaking harder—and returned with their book, opening it to page sixty-eight, where they had left off last. Only ten words in, Virgil jerked his arm away. Patton waited patiently. Virgil was likely experiencing sensory overload, which happened occasionally depending on how anxious he was. Patton didn't move, and soon Virgil tapped a short sentence into his arm.

_Please hold_.

Patton melted, then placed the book aside and wrapped his arms around Virgil. He squeezed the man's shoulders gently, and Virgil buried his face into his chest and wept.

_I'm here_ , Patton did his best to telepathically communicate. _I'm here and I love you and I won't hurt you_.

If Virgil understood, he didn't show it. Patton settled for pulling him closer, rubbing slow circles into his back and nuzzling his nose into Virgil's hair.

_I love you. I love you so much._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patton's got a cru-ush


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: okay, pretty straightforward 15 chapters, real emotional but fun fic! Shouldn’t be too hard to organize and write!  
> My brain: Nope. No no no. No.
> 
> So I’m rearranging chapters again lol. Chapter 9 is being moved to the place of chapter 13 (chapter 8 was already moved to 12 (a new chapter 8 was written to replace it) and what was previously chapter 9 got moved to 10, making the new 9 (which is now 13) out of what was previously chapter 10. No this doesn’t make sense in my head either), which almost guarantees that this’ll be longer than 15 chapters. In less confusing news, in my document I’ve just passed 20,000 words!
> 
> Enjoy this chapter, we get a bit of a look into life for our boys!
> 
> cw: mention of blood, panic attack, non-graphic flashback and descriptions of a flashback to an outsider, food

Virgil was okay, now. He wasn’t sick anymore, his eyes weren’t actively bleeding, the burning in his eyes had dwindled to a dull ache, and he could eat without the fear of the food coming back up. He was okay, he was fine, so why couldn’t he stop shaking?

Patton tried to help, always giving him both of the blankets. That didn’t solve the problem, though. Virgil wasn’t cold—well, he was, but the cold had set into his bones. Two thin blankets wouldn’t help. Most of the shaking showed in his legs and arms, but sometimes the memories and senses would grow too much and his entire body would be wracked with huge shudders. At those times, Virgil couldn’t get out of his own head. He knew that Patton was right there, holding his hand, but at the same time he was on the table again, held down as they did excruciating things to his face.

Virgil was sure the flashbacks would stop if only he could stop shaking, but the flashbacks made him shake more and the shaking caused flashbacks and it was an endless cycle of pain and embarrassment. Luckily, Patton didn’t seem to mind too much—he still held Virgil and did his best to ground him, still read to him everyday, still rested his head on Virgil’s chest when they slept and the trembling was minimal.

Breakfast that morning was normal, watery oatmeal for both of them. It was always oatmeal or grits or something similar, and once a week, toast and a piece of fruit each. Virgil scowled as his hand shook too much to carry the spoon all the way to his mouth without spilling any. Finally, he threw the spoon down and folded his arms. A hand brushed over his, but Virgil yanked away. He was supposed to be better! Patton was better, so why couldn’t he stop shaking? He wasn’t on the table anymore, he was with Patton who he cared about and cared about him!

_Virgil shaking too much. Calm._

Virgil let Patton impress the words into his arm before pulling away again. He didn’t want to be calm, he wanted to be out! He wanted to leave, and take Patton with him! They could go to school, share a dorm. Roman would get a dorm with his boyfriend, and then they could go on double dates together at the smoothie place down the street, because if he was imagining impossible things, he and Patton might as well be dating. Patton would laugh his adorable, wheezing laugh, and Roman would say something poetic, and Janus would roll his eyes before kissing Roman. Virgil wasn’t quite sure where he fit into the scenario, but he tried to place himself in the booth beside Patton. Patton would turn, still giggling at the antics, and his eyes would meet Virgil’s… .

No, no they wouldn’t. Virgil had no clue what Patton’s eyes looked like, and he never would. All that was in his head was a black space, a laugh, a warm touch, the smell of the soap in the room; all things that were Patton and yet would never capture him. The black space pulled Virgil in, surrounded him in the way it had and did and always would and Virgil heard himself sob, somewhere outside the black.

The black was stuttering—or maybe Virgil was shaking?—but he couldn’t get out, couldn’t pull himself away from the black whirlpool that was … slowly getting lighter?

A sick feeling of dread pooled in the bottom of his stomach as Virgil had a second of calm clarity beyond his breathless sobbing. He was falling into a flashback, which was stupid, because he wasn’t even thinking about it. But he could already feel the strap pushing his jeans into his shins, and he had barely a moment to be grateful for the presence of mind to know that it wasn’t actually happening before he was fully immersed.

-

After every one, Patton told himself that now that he knew what they were like, he would be able to help Virgil better. Every time another one hit Virgil, he found himself sitting beside the man uselessly, tracing his name into his wrist over and over until Virgil came out of it.

They were happening less frequently, thank goodness. They’d been happening multiple times a day for a while after Virgil got back, but it had been around two months now and they had reduced to about three a week. Patton hoped that they would keep becoming more and more rare. The shaking hadn’t diminished, though—it was seemingly what had triggered this flashback. Patton knew Virgil got frustrated by it, which was understandable, if confusing. Virgil had rarely had these sorts of breakdowns over his blindness, but sometimes different things hit people differently.

Virgil’s eyes were screwed shut as he cried, the man not responding to any outside stimulus, and Patton knew there was no way of getting him out of whatever his mind was trapping him in. There was nothing he could do.

Somehow, all the righteous anger had seeped out of him over the past weeks since Virgil had returned. He only passively wanted to make everyone in the Haven pay, including himself. Himself, because Patton knew that he had to be the reason Virgil was here. After all, they’d kidnapped Virgil with the sole purpose of locking him up with Patton, hadn’t they? If Patton had been more useful, hadn’t been deaf, Virgil would never have ended up here in the first place.

He was more resigned, he supposed. If they had a chance at escape, Patton would jump for it, but they had been here for so long. Countless months, maybe even a year. If there was going to be a chance to get out, it would have passed already. This was the life he and Virgil had. He was only glad that they got to share it.

Patton surveyed the breakfast tray. Virgil throwing his spoon had splattered some of the oatmeal, but luckily nothing had gone beyond the tray. That would mean more cleaning up. Not that he minded cleaning up, not at all, but he would probably have to use his own shirt, which would then need to be washed. Virgil’s hoodie was drying at the moment, which was why he’d been wrapped in a blanket all morning.

Just as Patton was finishing cleaning all the leftover oatmeal into one bowl—Virgil was never hungry after one of those awful flashbacks—the man beside him reached out and brushed his shoulder. The blue polo that had once belonged to Father was faded and stiff now, washed too many times with nothing but cold water and a cracked bar of soap and hung to dry.

The lines in Virgil’s face had relaxed, leaving him looking exhausted. Patton brushed the sign for ‘bed’ over his forearm and Virgil nodded, reaching up with trembling fingers. Patton wrapped an arm around him and heaved him up, supporting him in their walk to the bed.

Sometimes, days started by ending and starting again later, which was okay.

-

When they got up again, it was clear it was going to be a washing day.

Before the recent incidents, they had washed every day, or every other day. Virgil was fairly certain that they hadn’t washed in four days, and both he and Patton were getting grimy.

Washing was harder than it would have been in almost any other situation. All they had was one sink—if it could be called a sink, it was closer to a low-set faucet sticking out of the wall, no bowl beneath to catch the water, instead a drain in the floor. The bar of soap sat on the single shelf that was pounded into the wall.

When it was Virgil’s turn to wash (always after Patton lately, as washing tired him out so badly), he drew the curtain closed and stripped, dropping to his knees and ducking his head under the cold water before he was too nervous. It was a system shock as always, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay under. He felt a sense memory creeping up but shook it off, instead harshly scrubbing his head with the small bar of soap. He ran it along his skin while the soap in his hair rinsed out, then rinsed one limb at a time—all that would fit under the fall of water. Again the memory pushed at the back of his mind, and Virgil did his best to push it away. It was insistent, though, so Virgil turned the tap off, despite being fairly certain that there was still soap in his hair.

Annoying, that he couldn’t even find pleasure in what had once been an almost refreshing shower. He so badly wanted to feel alive again, to prove to himself that this life was going to go back to being okay.

He waved a hand outside the curtain and was given one of the blankets—probably the one Patton had just finished with, if the damp quality of it said anything. He didn’t mind, though, just wrapped it around his waist and stepped out. He never knew whether Patton had already gotten dressed or if he was still too wet; they didn’t tend to do more than hold hands after washing. It wasn’t like he could see Patton, so it really didn’t matter what he wore. He wanted to be alone right now, anyway, so he probably wouldn’t end up curled into Patton’s chest.

Virgil would normally try to dry off and re-dress, but he was shaking terribly and needed a break. Patton seemed to understand, leaving the bed when Virgil approached. He felt Patton pass by him, lightly brushing his hand, then heard the curtain pull closed. Despite having wanted privacy just a moment ago, as Virgil fell onto the bed, he felt strangely as if he’d been abandoned. Patton was still right there; all that separated them was a curtain.

Everything was the same as it had been, the same as the past days and weeks and months.

So why did he feel so scared?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it isn't clear, neither Patton nor Virgil have been 'fixed'. I wonder what the cultists are going to try and do about that? And why they tried to fix them in the first place?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I’m sick. I’m having a lot of trouble breathing and can’t stop coughing, and I need to get tested for covid before I can go in to work again.  
> My brain: yay!! More time to write!  
> Me: *can barely sit up, feels like chest is burning from the inside out* y-yeah... totally...  
> I wanted to post this chapter, but I’m just letting you know that the next one might be delayed <3
> 
> cw: sadness, mentioned estranged relationship with parent

The days were too short, yet too long. They passed slowly in the moment, but quickly when they were behind them. Every day, Virgil felt that he was leaving behind more of himself. Small pieces breaking off and getting lost in the whirlpool of their lives. He had to cling to what he had.

So sometimes, Virgil would sing.

He knew Patton couldn’t hear him—he wouldn’t be singing if he could. And sure, there were probably cameras somewhere in the room, but he found that he didn’t care anymore. When he sang, the tremors slowed. When he sang, Patton rested his head on his chest to feel the vibrations of the notes. When he sang, he was back home for just a moment.

“ _Dude, why candles?”_

_“The aesthetic! Just tell me you don’t secretly like it, Judy Gloom!”_

_“… Whatever.”_

_It was Halloween, and this year it had fallen on a Sunday. Roman was missing the trick-or-treating for religious purposes, and Virgil felt bad enough for him that he decided to stay in as well. Roman had gone all-out in decorating their dorm, spiderwebs artfully draped from every corner and ‘blood’ dripping down the wall. The lights were off, replaced with eerie candles making strange shadows flicker off the black windowpane._

_Roman himself was dressed as a . . . prince? Zombie? A combination of both? Whatever it was, Roman had been slowly working on the costume since May. He’d initially been disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to wear it outside, but he’d soon decided that the public 'wasn’t ready’ for it._

_“So, what first?” Roman was practically bouncing, clearly excited despite only being able to hang out with Virgil. Virgil hadn’t gone too big with his costume—just some fake vampire teeth and a black button-up, but Roman didn’t seem to care. “We could tell scary stories, or watch a classic, or drink the punch I made while headbanging to the Phantom Of The Opera Overture!”_

_“That was specific.”_

_“It’s tradition!”_

_Virgil found his eyes drawn to the small TV (also covered in spiderwebs). “Um, what do you have?”_

_Roman smiled hugely. “We could watch 'See No Evil’, or 'The Devil’s Rain’! Those are absolute classics!” His face turned contemplative, though. “Or maybe not,” he said after a moment. “It is Sunday, after all. Perhaps just a Disney movie?”_

_“Cool, 'Black Cauldron’. I can vibe with that.”_

_Roman threw something—a shoe—at him. Virgil ducked away, a smile quirking on his lips._

_“How about 'Sleeping Beauty’?” Roman suggested. “That’s … sort of Halloween-y. There’s a dragon and fairies, and the whole place goes all green and black, so it counts!”_

_Virgil shrugged exaggeratedly, sitting on the fair mountain of pillows they’d thrown to the floor. Why did Roman have so many pillows?_

_Roman joined him with a huge bowl of a snack mix, and the movie began. Roman, of course, sang along to every song, and though Virgil would never admit it, Roman had a really nice voice._

“ _That gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam_ ,” Virgil sang, and he was back. The words in his throat died as he searched for them, and instead he buried his face in Patton’s hair.

Did eyes gleam, like the song said they did? He’d never thought to check. It was such a simple thing, yet a thing now opaque, that he’d never thought to search and now never could.

How could he take so many wondrous things for granted? Even now, he wasn’t fully appreciating his only companion in this dark, new world. He pulled Patton closer, his legs quivering.

 _Are you okay?_ Patton tapped onto his arm. Virgil sniffed and tightened his arms.

“Pat, I love you so much,” Virgil confessed in a whisper. “I love you so much and we’re never going to get out of here. I’ll never see Roman again, or his boyfriend, or my teachers, or th-that nice lady from Roman’s church, or my m-mom.” He hadn’t thought much about his mother—they had been completely estranged since Virgil’s junior year of high school, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still care about her. Just thinking that he’d never see her again, never get to try to make things right, made his breath choke in his throat. Just like he couldn’t say what he wanted to Patton.

“I love you,” Virgil said slightly hysterically. “I love you and you—you can’t even hear me. You’ll never hear me say 'I love you’ and I’ll n-never see you sign it and please, Patton, say you love me back.”

Nothing. Virgil didn’t really expect anything, but some part of him had hoped that Patton at least writing the three words on his arm would be some sort of sign from above. His heart leapt into his throat as Patton did, in fact, take his arm.

_Bed?_

Virgil pretended like his nose wasn’t burning as he nodded against Patton’s head. He didn’t sing again.

-

They were halfway through the book.

It wasn’t the sort of book that Virgil would pick up himself, but he was fairly invested in the outcome. Every time they put the book down, Patton too tired to convey any more of it, he found himself disappointed. Not in Patton, of course, it was just that the book was really the only thing to do. Charades were no good, and they couldn’t write anything. Patton couldn’t talk to Virgil, who in turn couldn’t sign to Patton. There was nothing to do once Patton couldn’t tell him any more of the story for the day.

Today, Virgil held the book. He flipped through the pages, brought it to his nose and smelled it carefully. It didn’t smell musty and cold, like the room did, but rich and old. It smelled like it came from a different world entirely, a world where he wasn’t trapped in the most boring and painful place on earth.

 _Do you ever wonder what this would have been like if we were alone?_ he asked Patton out of nowhere. Patton made a noise that sounded a bit like a sigh.

_Sometimes. But then I cry._

Virgil was taken aback, not just by the honesty, but by the fact that he’d never noticed. What kind of boyf—what kind of _friend_ was he if he didn’t notice when the only other person in his life was upset?

 _It’s okay, because I’m not alone. You being gone_ —the letters became shaky, but Patton continued— _was the worst time of my life. I … missed you._

Virgil didn’t miss the pause.

_I was so scared that I’d never see you again. This place is bad. But with you, I’m happier than I ever have been._

That was high praise, seeing as Patton had lived an entire life believing the indoctrination of the cult before this. It only further cemented into Virgil’s head that he needed to get the man out of here. If only he could stop shaking, there had to be some way to get out.

 _They won’t separate us_ , Virgil traced unto Patton’s arm, making up a new sign for 'separate’ while he was at it. _Not again. Never again_.

Patton nodded slowly against his shoulder. _Never_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so h y p e d for this chapter you have no idea!! It’s a long one, so buckle up!
> 
> cw: violence, flashbacks, panic attacks

When Virgil woke that morning, the first thing he did was snuggle closer into Patton’s chest. It was the quiet moments, early in the morning, that made everything slightly okay. Those moments he could pretend that he was waking up in an apartment of his own, his boyfriend at his side, the sun just beginning to file through the window. In that perfect picture, the alarm was still ten minutes from going off, and Virgil could relish the warmth of their shared space and the softness of Patton’s nightshirt.

Then the door opened, and Virgil was shaking.

“Which one was it again?” somebody said.

“The Outsider.”

“They’re both Outsiders,” someone else muttered, and there was a chuckle.

“Be that as it may,” the second voice said, humor coloring it slightly, “It wouldn’t be good to turn up with the dumb one.”

Virgil’s blood boiled as he heard those words, but he only had a moment to be angry before fear gripped his heart.

“Try not to wake him up,” the second man said. “I almost got bit last time.”

They thought he was still asleep, then. _How can I use this?_

The hands that were so rough last time they pulled him out of bed were softer, almost gentle. Virgil forced himself to stay limp even as his entire body was screaming _danger_ , the hair on the back of his neck raising and his limbs quivering.

He was carried out, the door closing quietly behind them, before he truly started panicking. He tried to stop the shaking, tried to stay logical about what was happening because if he could not let them on to the fact that he was awake maybe he could escape!

“Being good today, are you?” said one of the men carrying him. “Don’t worry, this is for your improvement. We’re going to fix you.”

Nope nope _nope nope nope_ , they knew he was awake, they knew and now the grips on him tightened. Virgil thrashed too late, and the men laughed at his admittedly feeble attempt to escape.

“No, no, help! _Help_!” Virgil screamed hoarsely, knowing that the only person who would help couldn’t hear him. They were taking him again, they were taking him to the room, the bright one with the table and they’d hurt him again and again and again. “Please, please God, please help… .” Virgil begged deliriously. No one had helped so far, though. No help was coming. Virgil was alone.

One of the men grunted, dropping Virgil only a few inches, but enough that his stomach plummeted.

“The fu—oomph!”

Virgil fell, his head cracking nastily on the floor. Before he could even try to get his bearings, a pair of hands took him by the shoulders and tried to heave him up. Virgil reared back and blindly swung; a curse let him know he’d hit the man who’d talked bad about Patton. Good. Virgil smiled viciously.

Fear washed over him, its icy cold putting out the vindictive fire in his gut. He was going to be punished for fighting, he was sure of it. His head screamed when he tried to move away, though, so he fell back and waited, a tear escaping as his mind rolled over itself trying to think of all the things they might do to him.

“C'mon kid, get up. We gotta get out of here, now.”

This unfamiliar voice was close to his ear, breath hot and hair tickling his cheek. Virgil recoiled, but the person took him by the forearm and yanked him up. As soon as he let go, Virgil’s knees buckled and he fell again. The person sighed.

“They ran for help. We need to leave now, unless you want them to pour more acid in your eyeballs.”

Virgil flinched, but struggled to stand. “Wh-where?” he asked, frustrated when his voice broke.

“Away. Home, hopefully. I shouldn'ta grabbed you yet, they won’t be ready, but begging for your life can soften even my hairy heart.”

Out. Home. Back to school, back to friends, back to good food and soft clothes and showers and music. Back to loud days, louder nights. Back to a lonely bed, empty hands, books he’d never read again.

“Patton?” he rasped. “We—we have to get Patton, we—I can’t leave him!”

“They’ll come back for him, probably.” Virgil made some pained noise and the man amended his statement. “I mean, definitely! They’ll come back for him. But for now I need to get you out.”

Then they were running, Virgil’s bare feet slapping against the cold floor, his head pounding with his heart. He stumbled repeatedly, just trying to keep up with the man pulling so hard on his arm that Virgil was afraid for a crazy second that he would yank it out of the socket.

There were shouts behind them, and though all Virgil wanted to do was collapse and cry, he forced his jelly-like legs to move faster. He breathed jerkily, trying not to scream at the burning sensation in his lungs. The man pulling him was huffing and—laughing? Yes, laughing, a quiet giggle accompanying every heavy exhale.

Virgil decided not to dwell on it—he was too busy trying to not send himself into a coughing fit, anyhow.

“What are you doing?!” a woman screeched, and wow, that was a lot closer than Virgil expected it to be. He pushed his feet down harder, hoping to propel himself forward just a bit faster. His legs were so close to giving out, and his head felt like it was splitting; he didn’t think he could make it all the way to wherever they were headed.

They slowed suddenly, then there was a loud _clang!_ and the man was pulling him through a door and—outside.

It was hot. Hot and dry, and for just a moment, Virgil could imagine he could see the sun. It beat down on his face and almost instantly heated his dark hair. His feet met dry dirt, something poking into his sole—probably a stiff blade of yellowed grass. His head automatically turned down, expecting to see the rocks and dust and dying plants.

Nothing. Only blackness.

It was barely a second. For a second, Virgil felt all the overwhelming feelings of excitement, happiness, freedom—immediately quenched by despair and loneliness.

“Let’s go let’s go let’s go let’s go let’s go!” the man said frantically, pulling at him again. Virgil shook the emotions away and ran.

Rocks and crunchy grass cut his feet as they sprinted across the land, and Virgil tripped more than once over a low bush or bramble or a large rock. The man was always there to help him up, pull him to his feet in mere seconds, hold his arm to steady him as they ran.

Surprisingly, no one tried to stop them. No more yelling followed them. The only noise was the hot buzzing of insects, and maybe, if Virgil listened hard enough, strains of music from far away.

“I’d say not much farther to go,” the man gasped, “but we weren’t supposed to get out yet. The getaway car is at least ten miles out, but it’s on its way. Keep running!”

Virgil almost answered, but decided to conserve his breath. It was getting harder to breathe, harder to run, harder to keep it together. Now that they presumably weren’t being chased, he couldn’t tear his mind away from Patton. Patton, who had been asleep when he’d been taken, who would wake up all alone, who would curl up on the bed and cry.

His thoughts got cold, and suddenly he was _on the table again, hands pulling on the skin of his face, legs quivering as he screamed—_

“Kid! Kid, I need you to get up, I don’t really wanna die in such an ugly place.”

Something was poking into Virgil’s back—the table wasn’t bumpy, they must’ve put something under him. Why was he coughing? His throat hurt so much, he needed to stop coughing.

“C'mon, c'mon. We have five minutes before we need to be in the car or else they’ll get us. Please, please get up.”

Whoever was shouting in his ear sounded scared, panicky even. Virgil had to … stand? But he couldn’t, his head ached and his eyes were on fire and he felt like he would never stop shaking, even as sweat rolled down his back. It was strangely warm, actually, and much less stuffy than normal. In fact, it smelled like … dirt? Sun? Heat?

“That’s it, I’m dragging you. Final warning to stand up!”

Virgil tried to speak, but coughed instead. He could get up, right? Maybe they’d stop hurting him if he did. He rolled to his side, struggled to his hands and knees. As soon as the pad of his foot made contact with the ground, he collapsed.

There was a slight crunch beside his ear and he whimpered through the hacking, then heard a loud sigh.

“Well, I’m not abandoning you. I’m done leaving people. Except these people. And once we’re out, I’ll probably leave you. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Virgil was struck by the strange desire to laugh, for some reason. Instead, he swallowed hard and scrubbed his face with his sleeve. He didn’t have his hoodie, he realized suddenly. His mind flashed back to the night before, when he’d hung it up to dry then wrapped himself in a blanket, snuggling close to Patton’s chest for warmth.

Patton wasn’t here.

“What’s happening?” he croaked, followed by a cough.

“We’re waiting to get dragged back to hell,” came the cheerful reply.

Huh. He’d expected something more along the lines of _we’re fixing you_ or _something prophets something something_.

It was definitely too hot, so he couldn’t be in the room. Was he … were they … outside? As soon as he thought it, he knew he was. He’d had a flashback, brief as it was. They were—they were escaping. Again, Virgil tried to stand, but sharp pains tore through his knees and feet and he collapsed again.

“It’s okay, the car should be here at some point. We just gotta lie still until then.”

Virgil complied, forcing his body to relax as much as possible. There were several questions he wanted answers for, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to say more than one. “Wh-why did you help me?” he managed.

“You were beggin’ and I felt guilty. I was already getting out. I’ve been here for years, kid. Got trapped. I joined up to make my parents mad, straight outta high school. So I’ve been stuck in this cult for … five years? Six? The first year was okay, I guess. But after that I lost all contact with everybody not in the Haven.” he said ‘Haven’ with a shiver in his voice, but continued. “I’ve got no clue what my little brother looks like. What his interests are. How much he hates me.”

That was supposed to be something Virgil responded to, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of what would normally be said in such an instance. Why was this person sharing so much personal information? The man went quiet, so Virgil focused on breathing and not vomiting.

He didn’t know how long had passed—seconds? Minutes? It felt like an hour—before he was being pulled up by his upper arm. Virgil cried out, and the man shushed him.

“Car’s here, I just need you to climb into it.”

Virgil allowed himself to be maneuvered into something cold, a car, the man had said. It was almost freezing, but soft, so so soft.

“Can you stay awake? We have to ask you some important questions, then you can sleep.”

Virgil didn’t even register the words before passing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses as to who this mystery man is?  
> Don't worry though, his identity will be revealed soon :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had so much fun reading what y’all thought of the last chapter! Very concerned about Patton, aren’t we?
> 
> cw: mentions of food, mentions of blood, brief intrusive thoughts

Remus knocked lightly on the bedroom door.

“Come in.”

Remus eased the bedroom door open and slid in, smiling slightly when he saw Logan at his desk. The man leaned back and nodded, a sign of recognition. Logan was Remus’s roommate, brought together by a shared portion of history.

Logan ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, then gestured for Remus to take a seat on the bed across the room.

Logan was a quiet person; he left Remus to his own devices. It was certainly very kind of him to offer Remus a place to stay, even if he may have ulterior motives. On at least three occasions, he had practically interrogated Remus about the Haven and the circumstances that had led to his escape. Despite these sort of harrowing confrontations, he made a good roommate. They barely interacted, Remus still running on a nocturnal clock due to his frequent shifts as a night guard, and when he went to bed early in the morning, Logan was usually leaving for his first job already.

They each washed their own dishes and clothes—not that Remus had many of either of those. He’d been eating off paper plates and wearing Logan’s clothes. Today, he was wearing one of Logan’s boring, too-tight black polos. As soon as he had a job of his own, he was going to go on a thrift shopping spree.

Logan’s living space was a bit messier than Remus had expected when first invited to stay with the older man, but he supposed he didn’t have any room to talk. After being forced to keep a clean bunk in the Haven for seven years (because that’s how long it had been, too long, far longer than he’d thought), Remus had also strewn all of his stuff around. It was therapeutic.

“How did it go?” Logan asked, shutting his laptop. Remus took a moment to let his eyes trace the lines on Logan’s face. Had they always been there? For as long as Remus had known him, yes. He couldn’t be too old—in his forties, likely, but he’d always seemed like he was beyond that. There were a few more lines, actually, since the last time he’d seen him.

Logan had been out for two years, having narrowly escaped, with the help of Remus. All this time, he’d been looking for a way to take down the cult. So much work with so little success must have been taxing. Finally, Remus shrugged.

“Fine, I s'pose. I managed to cry for them, so maybe that’ll push the case.”

Logan nodded, worrying his lip between his teeth. “And the boy?” he asked. “They said he was college-age. Has he—?”

“Nope,” Remus said, popping the ‘p’. “Nothing out of him. He’s still pretty out of it, last I heard. Went to visit him in the hospital after the Session, but they wouldn’t let me in.”

“Don’t compare it to a Session,” Logan said absently. Remus watched him for a moment, seeing the way Logan’s eyes wandered. He was tired, probably. Upset. He’d had his own interrogation earlier that morning, and he’d been in the cult far longer than Remus had.

“The kid’s blind,” he said out of nowhere. Logan abruptly refocused.

“What?”

Remus smiled toothily. “Didn’t know at first, but his eyes were all red and cloudy when I pulled him outta there. He could see before he went in, I’m sure of it.”

Logan’s chest twitched, but his face was as wooden as ever. “Are you sure you don’t have a name?”

“Even if I did, I couldn’t give it to ya,” Remus said. He knew what Logan wanted from him, but he couldn’t 'release’ any information on the kid’s appearance. Well, technically he just had. Nobody needed to know.

“I saw 'em bring him in, from the Outside,” Remus said, as casually as possible. It wasn’t that he was sharing anything he couldn’t know, right? He really just wanted to help Logan.

Logan deflated momentarily, then straightened as his brows furrowed. “Did you tell them this? Today?” he asked seriously. “This will certainly incite them to make a move. Did they say anything about contacting the FBI?”

Remus thought back.

-

_The detective was wearing boring clothing. No trench coat, no cool badge. Just a short-sleeved white top with jeans, ID clipped onto his pocket. Like any other cop. He chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, examining Remus’s written testimony on his tablet. Well, Remus assumed that was what he was doing. He could have just been looking at the take-out menu for the Panera Bread down the street._

_Eventually, he put it down. “Your story matches up,” he said heavily. Remus felt relieved, for some reason. Years of conditioning in a cult would do that to you._

_“Good to know I’m not making anything up!” he said cheerily. The detective smirked lightly._

_“Right. Now, you’ve written that the young man was kidnapped. Do you have any way to confirm this?”_

_Remus flinched, the memory of being one of the guards beside the male Prophet as they carried the wild-eyed kid forward, hogtied and gagged, was forced into his brain. “Uh, yeah. I was there when they got him out of the van.”_

_The detective frowned. “That seems to distress you. You want to tell me about your involvement?”_

_“Not really, no. I didn’t grab the kid myself, if that’s what you’re askin’.”_

_A nod. “You saved him, you know. How did you contact the police from inside the NRM?”_

_“Morse code,” Remus said easily. They’d already asked him about this, hadn’t they? “Learned it in middle school. Lolo had screwed with a radio 'til it picked up close police radios. I grabbed it from his house and sent out messages when I could.”_

_“Good, good.” The detective picked up his tablet again, scrolled until he hit what he wanted. “You said the man who was kidnapped wasn’t blind when he arrived?”_

_Remus scratched his mustache, trying to not look suspicious. “Far as I know. There was another kid too, did I mention that?”_

_“You did, but we aren’t talking about him right now. What made you think that they blinded the subject?”_

_“The fact that his eyes were bloody?” Remus suggested. “Or maybe the way he screamed while they had him in their doctor-rooms? How about the times I heard them talking about their stupid experiment? Once a Bro—a cult guy, talked my ear off about how they couldn’t tell if the kids were communicating or not and how frustrating it was or whatever, and I just had to sit there and listen like he wasn’t torturing two kids.” Remus could feel his ears growing hot as his voice became more of a growl. If he ever saw any of them again… ._

_“Experiment?” the detective probed. “You mentioned the word several times in your account, but never what you were referencing with it.”_

-

“Yeah, I told 'em,” Remus said, quietly. “I told everything, Lolo, so just stop asking.”

Logan stared, seeming to realize he’d crossed a line. He adjusted his glasses, murmuring an apology.

Remus leaned back on Logan’s bed, determined to lighten the mood. “Thanks for letting me crash 'til I can talk to the ol’ family,” he said, as lightly as possible. Logan nodded, a slight frown pulling on his lips.

“Where else would you go?” he asked. “A police holding cell? You’re my friend, Remus, and you need to stay in town until the official statement is released.”

Remus felt his heart warm slightly. “Yeah, that might be sooner than you think,” he said, without even processing the words. As he realized what he said, his hand slapped over his own mouth. “Oops,” came out, muffled. He definitely wasn’t supposed to say that.

Logan had gone deathly still. “Remus,” he said, voice low, “what do you mean by that?”

Remus shook his head. Why could his mouth never do what he wanted it to? As Logan stared him down, he only shook it more insistently.

“I may have to go to work in twenty minutes,” Logan said, “but I’m not letting you get away without telling me what you meant by that sentence.”

“Nothing!” Remus squeaked. “Absolutely nothing! So who’re you tutoring today? Is it the green-haired kid with the gnarly piercings?”

“Remus.”

Remus sighed. “I’m not s'posed to tell you,” he hedged. “They told me to keep it secret.”

“Does it directly apply to me, or the health of anyone I care about?”

Remus sighed and sat up, meeting Logan’s eyes. The older man was stone-faced, his eyes boring into his skull.

-

_The detective’s eyes bored into his skull. “One last thing, then you can go for the day.”_

_Remus felt an inordinate amount of relief. That was stupid, it wasn’t like this was a Session. He was just trying to take down the cult that ruined his life, and these people were able to help him do that. He should be happy to be here._

_Spoiler alert: he wasn’t. He was scared, though he’d never admit it. Scared that he’d wake up tomorrow morning, in Logan’s apartment, being dragged away like he was another experiment. Taken back to the Haven, where they’d lay him on a table and play with his eyeballs. Or cut open his stomach in pretty little slits and poke his intestines, telling him all the while that they were fixing him! He was broken inside, for trying to leave and never being able to sit still in church and ruining the Visual-Hearing Impairment Experiment. To figure out what was broken, they had to take a look!_

_Remus snapped back to attention as the detective flipped the tablet around, revealing that he’d pulled up pictures of a battered, blue, pocket-sized notebook. As he slowly scrolled, Remus realized they’d taken a photo of each page. They were filled with marks, seemingly random, a letter here and there. To an outsider, it was nonsense._

_Luckily, nonsense was just the type of sense Remus tended to engage with._

_“I’m assuming this is your notebook,” The detective said. “It was in one of your pockets when you arrived. Can you tell me what it says?”_

_Remus smiled anxiously. “I’m probably one of two people who can! And I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He leaned in close, almost snorting when the detective did the same. “That’s not my notebook.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jaksdhjklk sorry for having Logan as a character tag all this time, I didn't know it would be so long before he was introduced.
> 
> Any guesses for the next chapter? Any theories? I'd love to hear them!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Death of an OC, forced separation of a parent and their child

It was a warm day in March when Logan Sanders looked across the lab and realized that Marcus wouldn’t meet his eyes.

 _Ah. Already_.

He hadn’t expected it to happen yet—he’d thought he had another week, at least. This was going to be problematic: he hadn’t quite collected everything he needed, and he certainly wasn’t packed. He hadn’t said anything to Patton, either. His son wore emotions on his figurative sleeves, every single resident of the Haven would know immediately that something was up.

Logan stepped away from his desktop, frowning slightly as he closed what he was working on and, as a last-minute decision, changed his password before locking the computer. He was sure they knew his log-in information, so this was just something to slow them down.

Logan cleared his throat to get Patrick’s attention. “Brother Hadley, I’ll be taking my lunch break presently.”

Patrick started, his gaze flickering guiltily. “Oh, of—of course, Brother Sanders.” he looked around as inconspicuously as possible. Logan nearly rolled his eyes. If they were planning to take him out, couldn’t they at least be less obvious about it?

Logan nodded curtly, then left the room, swinging his satchel over his shoulder. Taking his things with him would likely make them suspect that he was suspecting them, but he had too many important items to leave them behind.

The walk home was not more physically laborious than it had ever been, but it certainly felt as though it were. Even though he felt eyes on him, Logan made a point to not check over his shoulder, because he wouldn’t normally do such a thing. He had to act as if this were just another day, just his usual lunch break. Even so, he was shaking so badly that he fumbled with his keys in the lock and dropped them.

Once inside, Logan dropped all pretenses of normality and and rushed into his bedroom.

-

When he’d first arrived, Logan hadn’t expected to live in the Haven for over two decades. It had been an eighteen month experiment, something he was only interested in for scientific purposes. He’d been hired by them, straight out of Penn, prospects of discovery and renown appealing to him. Of course, he now understood that the Haven only wanted more intelligent genes in their cult.

Now he’d been here for twenty-three years. His youthful smile had hardened, his hair was showing grey at the temples. For every piece of research he completed for them, he gathered another piece of evidence against the cult. Within the last year, he had finally gotten enough to warrant getting out—at least, that’s what he’d told himself.

At first, he’d stayed for Rachel. The so-called prophets had been pushing for him to marry, and, fearing for his life, he’d chosen Rachel. She was less enchanted by the cult than anyone else, and the only woman in the Haven who seemed to care more about his personality than his devotion to the faith. He would never lie and say that he was particularly attracted to her, but he had found her company enjoyable and had come to care a great deal for her. They laughed a lot together, could never fail to make the other smile, and what was love if not that? Logan had thought for a time that perhaps the Haven wasn’t too bad.

Then along had come Patton, a quiet baby who didn’t seem to get along well with the other children of the Haven. He was rejected by the followers, despite Logan and Rachel’s best attempts to make him seem as normal as possible.

One day, just before Patton reached his second birthday, the Brethren came knocking. They spoke woodenly, almost an imitation of sadness, as the spoke the news Logan had been dreading to hear. Rachel had been in a tragic accident, they’d said. God had seen fit to remove her from this life early, they told him.

All but Logan’s eyes were dry at the funeral.

Logan knew it was too dangerous to stay in the Haven. They wanted a fully functional child (as much as the words rankled Logan), and Rachel had failed to provide. They wouldn’t kill Logan—he was too useful, but he had no illusions that they would be at all kind to Patton. So he tried to comply, sneaking away what he could only when there was zero chance of getting in trouble for it.

They tried to make him remarry, but he begged off, pretending to be ignorant of their motivations. There weren’t any women his age, he deflected. He was still in love with Rachel, and Patton was the only thing keeping him afloat, he said. That helped with Patton’s safety—if they wanted him to be compliant, they were going to have to leave Patton alone.

They had; Patton’s entire life had been carefree. Logan had kept him at home as much as possible, getting special permission for church to be held at home as ‘Patton wouldn’t understand any of it at the chapel and the translating would become a distraction for other followers’. Almost certain that they were being watched, Logan made sure to only teach that which complied with the Haven’s doctrine.

When Patton was seventeen, he landed a job in the communal kitchens and Logan breathed a figurative sigh of relief. He had shown an incredible aptitude for chores such as cleaning and cooking, which were both very safe tasks. He was a very smart boy, always grasping whatever concepts Logan taught him instantly, but nobody could know that. He couldn’t let them use his son in that way.

After Patton had a job and was providing steady support within the Haven, Logan decided to take more risks. He had to get out and get Patton out, give him the chance to lead a normal life not dictated by false prophets. He sat in on more than his fair share of experiments, took notes on projects that were not his. He only hoped that he could stay unnoticed long enough for him to escape.

-

Now, they had found out. He knew it would happen, the moment he’d woken up two mornings ago and realized he had been careless enough to leave his satchel at work the day before. Something had felt off all evening, but Patton had been having a rough day and he’d pushed aside the sense of not-right in order to help his son the best he could. He’d realized, dread sinking to the bottom of his stomach, that it was time to get out.

He’d observed the perimeter guards’ patterns for the past three years (ever since Patton was first looking for a job), uncertain of when he would need to make a sudden escape. He’d kept his suitcase open under his bed for the past twenty years, ever since Patton’s birth, originally prepared to sneak a wife and baby away. Now it would just be him and his adult son, so he would have to pack for the two of them instead of the three. More room for non-essentials, then, like photographs.

Patton would be home soon, wouldn’t he? If not, Logan would make a pretense of bringing him something. _It won’t work_ , his mind whispered. _As soon as you leave this house and don’t head back to the Lab, they’ll grab you._

Logan did his best to ignore it, hoping that Patton would be let off early. It wasn’t unusual for Patton to leave before lunch to bring Logan something to eat, as he preferred the quiet of their home to the communal dining hall. Maybe today would be one of those days.

The suitcase was atop his bed now, and Logan was frantically shoving all that he might need into it. His pocket-sized coded notebook, all the non-perishables in the kitchen, a few shirts for both him and Patton—

The front door creaked open, and Logan froze for a moment, about to cover the suitcase with his blankets. The footsteps that followed were Patton’s, though, so he continued. He didn’t have time to explain what was going on to Patton, he’d have to tell him after they were out.

Patton entered his bedroom, looking for all the world like he had no idea what was happening, and Logan tried to send him a smile but wasn’t sure that he got it across properly. There was truly no time, if Patton was here already they needed to leave right now. He stopped trying to stuff the suitcase and instead pulled on the zipper. “We’ve still got time, we’ve still got time, we can get out,” he muttered to himself.

The storming of boots reached his ears and Logan finally accepted that it was too late. Hopefully they wouldn’t assume that Patton might be complicit, he couldn’t let them pull his son into a Session. Still, he knew that he couldn’t leave without last words to his son, no matter how dangerous it was. As rough hands pulled him away from his packing, he signed the one phrase that he thought would keep him safe in Patton’s mind— _I love you_.

-

Logan was only locked up for two days.

He was frankly insulted that they thought a cell that he’d had a hand in designing could contain him. He knew that if one waited for food to be pushed in, they could catch the flap and reach their hand out to lift the emergency latch on the door, which he did as soon as he decided they thought he wasn’t going to escape.

After that, getting out was easy. There was a perimeter guard named Remus whom Logan had befriended (“This place is insane, Sanders. How’d a pretty boy like you get mixed up with them?” “Could you help me get out?” “No problemo, just warn me when you leave. I can get your stuff from the lab and let you out.”), and that guard nodded to him as he crept out of the building under cover of nightfall. He desperately wanted nothing more than to sneak to his house and take Patton with him, but he was certain his house was being watched. So Logan waited until the other guard on duty that night took his break before climbing over the chain link fence that surrounded the Haven.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered as he looked back at the fenced-in community. He was leaving Patton, gods, how could he abandon his son! “I swear. I _swear_ I’ll get you out.”

The desert surrounding it was cooling down with the night air, and Logan shivered before turning away. The wind ruffled his hair as he trekked farther onward, his Haven-made shoes not made for the rocky wilderness. He pulled his lab coat closer around him. He was sure he made for a pitiful sight, white coat already scuffed and dirty, satchel weighing his shoulders down into a droop, scruff painting his cheeks.

When he arrived at a gas station two days later, dehydrated and sunburnt, a feverish spark in his eyes, the man at the counter didn’t remark on how he looked. He simply dialed 911.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory, yay!!  
> Be a real shame if we didn't see Patton next chapter, as I know y'all are concerned about him :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character we meet this chapter I never intended on being a part of this story, but he wrote his way into it early on lol.  
> Pay attention to the warnings for this chapter! A character is currently residing in a hospital, so detail is given on his living arrangements and daily schedule.
> 
> cw: hospitals and residence in them, mentions of surgery/operations, medicine in the form of pills, mentions of an IV, flashbacks, brief discussion of past kidnapping, food

“ _Is he waking up?”_

_Virgil frowned slightly at the words. Why couldn’t they ask him, instead of talking as if he wasn’t there?_

_“Can you hear me?”_

_Virgil stiffened. No, no, he was on the table, wasn’t he? Okay, first things first: he needed to calm down. His legs were shaking uncontrollably, that would certainly give him away. He swallowed, his throat dry. He could survive this._

..

The hospital was scary, made even more so by the fact that Virgil hadn’t talked to anyone who wasn’t an employee yet. He didn’t know anything that was going on, didn’t know if Patton was out yet, didn’t even know where he was.

His room was fairly boring, as far as he could tell. There was a TV in the wall across from the room, the remote on the bed beside him. Sometimes Virgil would flick through the channels, stopping to listen to the news or an episode of _Full House_ , both of which were fairly easy to follow without visuals.

There was a bathroom to his left—he hadn’t had much exposure to it so far, but desperately wanted to shower. He couldn’t get the bandages around his eyes wet, so he wasn’t allowed to stand under the spray. He’d done his best with a sponge before getting light-headed, but his hair still felt so greasy it was almost unbearable.

..

_It was so loud. And … strangely shaky. Like whatever he was laying on was rocking. What was he laying on? It felt softer than the table, almost like his and Patton’s bed but much smaller._

_As Virgil became more aware of the surface, he also realized that there was something warm—a person?—right beside him, his head slightly pushing into it. He flinched away._

_“Can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?”_

..

“Hi, Virgil! This is Linda, your nurse today.”

The voice was soft, probably not knowing if he was awake or not. Virgil turned his head to her, quirking his lips in a grimace that hopefully passed as a greeting. Apparently it was enough, because a hand gripped his arm. Virgil couldn’t help it; he jumped.

“Oh, sorry!” Linda murmured, kindly keeping her voice down. “I’m just checking your IV. Is that all right?”

Virgil cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he forced out. His legs shuddered violently and he grimaced. “Just—just warn a dude next time, all right?”

“Of course, I’m sorry. I’ve put a cup with your pills in it on the little table here, do you think you can take them when breakfast arrives?”

His fingers twitched, trying to press his and Patton’s word for ‘yes’ into thin air. “Yeah. When will the doctor be in?” he added. He was supposed to get the bandages off later that day for a check-up, and if all looked well, they’d go forward with the next surgery.

“Probably around midday,” Linda answered. She was farther away than Virgil expected, likely checking the bathroom. “How about we read off your schedule?”

Virgil didn’t respond. Taking that as a positive response, the nurse began to read it off.

“June fifteenth. At seven-thirty, they’ll bring in your breakfast, so that’s in about ten minutes. At nine, the counselor will be in. The therapy dog will be making rounds at around eleven, would you like a visit?”

Virgil shrugged. Mostly he wanted to know what was going on.

“And then a check-up at twelve.”

..

“ _We’re almost to the hospital. Can you tell me where you went to high school?”_

_No no no, he couldn’t. Virgil had no clue what they wanted with that info, but he refused to give it. “Please just let me go back,” he whimpered._

_“How old are you?”_

_“I just want to go back, back to normal, back to Pat,” he cried. “Please don’t, please, I can’t survive this again.”_

_“Don’t worry kid, you’re safe now.” That voice was farther away, but somehow familiar. “We got you out.”_

_.._

When Virgil finally shook off the memory, he realized that there was food being placed on the fold-out tray on his bed. With permission, someone placed a spoon in his hand, then told him where everything was on the tray.

Just as he started eating, someone—Linda? That was her name, right?—knocked on his open door. “Virgil, you have a visitor!”

The only person who knew where he was was Roman, presumably. That was the only contact number he’d been able to recall to give them. They’d asked for parents, of course, but Virgil hadn’t known his mom’s number in years and hadn’t ever known his father, so his roommate had to do. So it had to be Roman visiting him.

Unless … they had gotten Patton out?

“His name is Roman Allred. Is it all right if he comes to see you?”

The disappointment was heavy, despite knowing it would be Roman. Soon, though, it was overtook by anticipation. He was going to get to see Roman again! Virgil nodded, then remembered that it was societally expected to verbally respond. “Uh, yeah. I’m not busy.”

“All right, I’ll phone down to the lobby to let them know it’s okay! Can I leave your door open?”

“Whatever.”

This was going to be weird. Virgil had only been in contact with Patton for over a year, and since then he’d only talked to doctors, nurses, and a detective. What would it be like with someone who he’d known Before?

Not to mention, he probably looked terrible. Unwashed hair, a hospital gown, bandages wrapped around his eyes and his head. He wouldn’t be surprised if Roman didn’t even recognize him. Why had he agreed to this?

“Oh my _gosh_.”

On instinct, Virgil’s head snapped to the door. That was a voice he never thought he’d hear again, and the nerves in his stomach rose to his throat.

Some rustling, then the sound of squeaking as someone sat in the chair beside the bed. “Virgil, Virgil, you’re … you’re here.”

Virgil didn’t say anything, instead fumbling for the pills beside him. Maybe the water would get the lump out of his throat.

“I—can you see? I mean, I know you can’t right now, with the . . . stuff on your eyes, but like, otherwise?”

Again, he didn’t respond, instead choking down the pills. He took several more swallows of water, trying to not get too overwhelmed. Somehow he knew that one of the nurses at the desk was watching their interaction through the open door. It was a lot, and all at once. He’d barely been here a week, and they expected him to be stable enough for a visitor? Why couldn’t Roman wait until after they were done with all the surgeries, assuming they did another tomorrow morning? Then maybe he’d be allowed to cry.

“Hey Roman,” he managed eventually. “It’s … it’s really good to hear your voice.” It was, and he sounded exactly the same. It almost made Virgil believe that he hadn’t been gone for over a year, that nothing had really changed, that tomorrow he’d wake up in the dorm and Roman would throw a pillow at him when he turned the lights on.

“Why are you up at this time, anyways?” Virgil asked, trying to sound lighthearted. “It’s like, before eight. Shouldn’t you be cursing the sun?”

Roman laughed thinly. “I may have … driven all night to get here. They only called me the day before yesterday.”

“Oh, right.” Virgil poked his fruit cup with his spoon. They’d brought him oatmeal, but one bite had proven he wouldn’t be able to stomach it. So instead, he was just going to eat the syrupy fruit and drink the apple juice and hope they didn’t get mad at him for not eating.

He heard the chair squeak again as Roman shifted, then a sniffle. “Dude, are you crying?” Virgil blurted. That was definitely the most tactful thing he’d ever said.

“Maybe I am!” Roman said, a little high-pitched. Virgil winced at how loud he suddenly was—he’d been keeping surprisingly quiet so far. “You literally disappeared in the middle of the night, and over a year later, I get a call from some hospital in the middle of nowhere and they refuse to tell me anything about how you’re doing! I don’t know anything that happened! You disappeared!” Another sniffle, then the sound of Roman blowing his nose. “We started a support group at school for people who had been affected by kidnapping! There’s practically a shrine to you down the hall from our room! There were posters all over with your face on them! What happened, Virge?”

That was a lot of information. The logical way to respond would probably be to apologize for causing worry, or to reassure Roman, or to thank him for everything he’d done. Instead, what Virgil said was: “A shrine? What, do you guys pray to me?”

Roman snorted wetly. “The freshmen do,” he said. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“Conspicuous subject change,” Virgil muttered. “You mean other than the hospital?”

“Yeah. I’m at my parents’ place for the summer. I told them sort of what’s happening, and I know you and your mom don’t talk, so they said you can stay over for as long as you want.” Roman stood, making a lot of noise. Virgil really had no clue what he was doing. “I promise I’ll try not to press you about what happened. You’ll be … you’re safe at my house.”

Virgil was touched, really touched. The lump in his throat was back, and he hissed as his eyes burned with more pain than usually accompanied tears. Roman made some sort of move, headed off when Virgil waved his hand. “I’m good, just almost cried. That’s … this is a lot.”

He really, really wanted a safe place to stay, out of the hospital. But Roman lived so far away, and he couldn’t just abandon Patton, could he? But he had nowhere to stay. He had to leave. Again, his eyes burned.

“Thanks. Thanks so much.” Was he really going to accept this? Was he just going to abandon Patton the way he swore he never would? Every day his heart ached, and he hoped beyond hope that someone would come in and tell him that they’d saved another, a young man named Patton, and they would finally be free together like they always promised they would. How could he say yes, then, to going with Roman?

But Roman was here, right now, doing the nicest thing Virgil had ever known him to do. It was selfless, it was so unbelievably kind. How could he just turn that down?

“I think I’d like that,” Virgil said quietly. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Roman continued to talk, but Virgil’s mind was back in that small bed in the small room that was their world, breathing in the smell of soap as his nose was buried in Patton’s hair. He was abandoning him. Right then, Virgil swore to himself that he would show Patton how huge the world was, and make it their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> b e a r e a l s h a m e i f w e d i d n ' t s e e P a t t o n n e x t c h a p t e r--
> 
> So I had a thought. I understand that this chapter could be triggering to someone who has spent a lot of time in hospitals or who has had a bad experience with them. Would it help if I put a quick summary of the plot in the end notes here so those who can't read it aren't missing out on anything? I would do the same things for other chapters that are high in triggers, and others if requested. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Edit: here is the summary of the plot! Virgil has been safely rescued and is in the hospital. They are unable to heal his eyes, and he remains blind. Virgil's roommate from college visits, and offers Virgil a place to stay at his family home. Virgil worries about abandoning Patton, who has not been mentioned, but eventually accepts.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, about to rearrange chapters again: I’m sure that this won’t be longer than twenty chapters. Probably. Hopefully.
> 
> cw: mention of hospitals (in the past), mentions of surgeries (in the past), food mentions

_Remus rubbed his eyes blearily. He really needed to get up and get to work—he’d be in trouble if he didn't—but he was just so tired. Why the Prophets insisted on having his bimonthly Sessions in the evening, he’d never understand. By the time he’d gotten back to the bunks he’d only had two hours to sleep before he needed to get ready for his late night guard shift._

_He begrudgingly rolled out of bed, still in his day clothes despite the dust that was now surely on his bed. He slipped on his boots, laced them up, then grabbed the radio and some fruit leather. The sugar probably wouldn’t do much to keep him awake, but that was what the radio was for. He was to be the only guard on shift tonight—the perfect time to send another message._

_As always, he dipped into the dark laboratory building. All of those who were normally here had gone home for the night, leaving him relatively free to roam as he wished._

_First, Remus checked the camera feed, his eyes immediately drawn to the Experiment. The two boys seemed to be curled around each other in the bed. As he looked closer, he could see them move slightly—a deep breath here, the combing of fingers through hair there. He could barely make out the details of the Sanders boy’s face—glasses, a sharp nose, a smile spread from cheek to cheek. While he watched, the kid removed the glasses and dropped them gently onto the floor, just within arm’s reach. Then he pulled the other boy closer to his chest and laid still._

_It was a tender moment, one Remus was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to witness. He didn’t really care. It was cute, honestly, not that he was into cute things like that. Looking at the Sanders kid made him cringe, remembering how he’d been roped into grabbing him outside of church that day months ago. Yeah, he felt guilty for that._

_He reached into his pocket almost unconsciously, rubbing his thumb along the increasingly worn cover of the blue notebook there. It definitely belonged to Logan, and he hadn’t wanted it taken and possibly decoded, so he’d sneaked it from Patton’s pocket when he thought no one was looking._

_The radio crackled, startling him from his thoughts. A message, without him even reaching out first? Some beeps sounded, and Remus scrambled for scrap paper. There was some not far, a college-ruled notebook with observation notes left open by whomever had last been in this room. Remus grabbed the pen laying beside it, copying down the long and short beeps as dots and dashes._

_The message cycled at least five times. When it finally cut off, Remus took a look at the dot-and-dash code written several times over._

_… - .- -. -.. / -… -.–_

-

Every day that passed was another day Remus grew more anxious. The detective they’d been working with was nice enough, but told him it could be months before they had permission to send a raid of sorts into the Haven. It was certainly a cult, but there were still hoops to jump through until it was classified as a harmful one. Remus died a little bit every time they said that.

“It’ll work out,” the detective had said the last time they’d met, almost two weeks ago. “We’re appealing for individuals held against their own will, and we already have a witness who said he wasn’t the only one. We’ll get in there, the case just isn’t top priority.”

Whenever the raid happened, Logan was going along. They’d said it was for his expertise, his knowledge of the area and inhabitants, but Remus was pretty sure he just wanted to see his son as soon as possible.

Right now, he was alone. Well, mostly alone. There was a teenage girl in the back room taking her break at the gas station Remus had managed to get a job at, but nobody else was in the store.

Remus was sort of scribbling on a pad of paper that was behind the counter. Mostly he was writing down what he could remember of his life before Haven—he had parents, a brother. They lived somewhere nice. Nothing important, though. Nothing that he could use to find them—if they even wanted him back. What type of person forgot their own family’s names? He was sure it had to be there, locked up in his head somewhere. How badly had the Sessions really affected him?

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Logan’s told him off in his head. _Don’t make yourself think about the Sessions, that’s a trigger for you. Go check the freezers._

Roman sighed and schlepped over to the other side of the store. The freezers were fine, as usual. Luckily, a customer walked in right then, preventing him from having to think any more on the Sessions.

-

“This is it!” Roman said, far too cheery. Virgil shrugged. It wasn’t like he could see it.

They were at Roman’s parents’ house, after a long drive during which Virgil hadn’t said much, other than complaining that they couldn’t fly. Roman had pointed out that his license and ID hadn’t come in the mail yet, and even so, they were being mailed to Roman’s parents’ house.

The surgeries had gone well, technically. He couldn’t see, and would probably never see again. At the moment, they were discussing experimental laser surgeries, but it didn’t look hopeful. However, he’d been promised that he would no longer feel heavy amounts of pain—as soon as the pain from the surgeries was gone. He could cry again—the second time the cult experimented on his eyes, they’d seemingly welded his tear ducts shut. One had been partially clear, enough that a few tears were able to squeeze out while locked away, but both were relatively functional now.

The detective had gotten his official testimony after he’d been safe for three weeks. It had been five harrowing hours of Virgil having breakdowns and panic attacks, trying to get across his story between the emotions. The detective had sent him a gift basket afterwards, which was nice. He was currently using the basket to carry all the discharge papers that he couldn’t read.

“I’ve asked my parents to not overwhelm or surprise you, but they probably made four pans of lasagna and baked a cake. They called me yesterday to ask what color of sheets you wanted, which was … awkward, to say the least.”

Virgil snorted. “Yeah, doesn’t really matter,” he said quietly. He did have a preference (black, or dark grey), but it wasn’t like he could see it.

“Can I help you up the steps?”

Virgil presented his arm, letting the man grab him—a little too rough, but they could work on that. It looked like he’d be here for a while, after all. He figured he could probably get some grants in light of his situation, and he’d be very surprised if the school didn’t give him his scholarships back.

Virgil shook himself. It was weird, thinking about college again. There had been months—a year, even—where the only definable future was the next day.

“Virgil! It’s so good to see you again!”

Virgil nodded in the general direction of the voice as he stepped inside, immediately hit by a wave of cold air. He shivered unconsciously, then let Roman lead him the rest of the way in.

They took a tour of the house, but Virgil had barely an idea of where everything was. They turned around so many times, he didn’t think he could even find a bathroom. His bedroom was fine—small, easy to navigate. The closet had a black hoodie hung up, and that was it—the first thing he and Roman had done was order it to be delivered to here. Virgil had approximately three changes of clothing in addition to it: they’d stopped at Walmart on the way.

In the room, there was a full-size dresser against the wall beside the door, about the height of him. There was a twin-sized bed in the corner farthest from the door, and the aforementioned closet on the opposite wall. A window was set into the wall that the head of the bed was pushed against. According to Roman, there was a mirror inside the closet door.

Virgil sat on the bed, then let his head fall to the pillow. It was too soft, by far too much, but it would have to do. If it didn’t work out, he could always sleep on the carpeted floor.

“Do you need anything right now?” Roman asked, his voice a little strained. Right, he had just been driving for eight hours straight.

“Nah, this is … it’s great,” Virgil said. “You can go sleep, if you want. I know you were up early.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Ro, I’m fine.” Virgil ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at how greasy it was. He’d managed to shower in the hotel room that morning, but he hadn’t been able to find the shampoo and had ended up using the hand soap. As he’d learned in the past year, that wasn’t great for cleaning hair. His hand ran all the way through it, down just past his shoulders. They were going to get it cut soon, weren’t they? Tomorrow, hopefully. “Seriously. I wasn’t planning on showering until tomorrow, so you can help me out then. I’ll be fine to sleep alone.”

Roman was silent for a few moments, likely considering it. “All right,” he said finally. “The bathroom is down the hall, remember? Turn left out the door, then it’ll be on your right. If you want to figure it out yourself, feel free to shower whenever your heart desires.” There was a bit of noise, then Virgil’s trash bag of his few belongings landed on the bed beside him. “Is it all right if I check on you whenever? I don’t mean to suffocate you, I . . . I’ve just been worried.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Virgil waved him off. “Now please go sleep.”

Roman left, and a few moments later, Virgil was crying.

It was official. He had no way of contacting the detective, or the man who had rescued him. He was states away, in a strange house, with no phone and no way to navigate the area. Virgil had left him. He’d abandoned Patton.

Virgil rubbed at his eyes furiously, ignoring the slight burn that came with it. He’d been alone, with his one true friend—his one true love, even—for a whole year, and he still had never realized his importance in Virgil’s life. Only a year, and he’d still taken Patton for granted.

It was too late now. There was no going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all probably don't really care about Patton at this point, after I've strung you along for so long. Maybe we shouldn't check up on him at all!
> 
> :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School started this week! I’m hoping to finish writing this fic by the end of this month, but if I need to take a break from posting I’ll let y’all know.  
> I had this chapter written, came back to write the next chapter a few days later, and instead added about 500 words to this one lol. So it’s decently long!
> 
> How about we check up on a certain someone?
> 
> cw: food mention, brief mention of vomiting, blood, violence, separation

The first time they took Virgil, Patton had been scared. Scared that he was alone, scared that he was going to be alone for forever. Scared that he liked Virgil, too much.

This time, he wasn’t scared.

Patton was _livid_.

It was terrifying to wake up, by yourself, in a bed still warm from the person who had been forcefully taken from it. The fear only lasted for a moment, though, before Patton saw red.

 _“You took him?”_ He signed shortly, knowing that none of them understood him. _“You took him? Again?”_

Nothing. No response whatsoever. So Patton did something he hadn’t done since he was a very small child.

Patton opened his mouth and screamed.

-

Patton was eating, but only out of spite. He needed to eat, because how else would he build muscles?

All he did, all day every day, was work out. Every single exercise Virgil had taught him—jumping jacks, sit-ups, push-ups. Anything to get strong.

He began to lift the thin mattress in place of weights. He threw up more than once before finding a good balance between his new fitness regime and his stomach, but after some trial and error he figured it out.

He tied Virgil’s precious hoodie around his shoulders, knowing that it was imperative he have it on hand at all times, so that as soon as Virgil returned, he could wrap him in it.

As soon as Virgil returned.

He’d just decided, he was going to ask Virgil to teach him how to speak. Not because he was ashamed of being deaf, not at all. He just wanted an easier way to communicate with Virgil, who couldn’t see his hands. It was going to be hard, he knew that, and he’d have to learn how to read lips first, which would definitely be difficult. He’d tried to figure it out on his own in the past, when Father wasn’t paying attention, but it had been impossible.

Not that Virgil was trained in such a thing. Maybe, though, between the two of them they could figure it out!

Patton finished the set of sit-ups and collapsed. Why had nobody told him how much exercise hurt? His father had taken a jog every morning, but had never seemed like he was about to pass out from exertion, which Patton was certain he was close to. Virgil made it look so easy.

Even when he was so sore he could barely move, so bored he couldn’t be entertained by fitness, Patton didn’t touch the book. He couldn’t read ahead and spoil it for himself. That would be cheating, it was Virgil’s book as much as it was his.

He washed twice a day, once after the morning meal and again after the evening one. If Virgil were here, he would stay with the once a day (or two or three times a week, as had been the norm lately) that they usually stuck to, but there was truly nothing else to do. Sometimes Patton wondered how he’d survived before Virgil arrived.

Patton counted how many days Virgil had been gone by using the spoon that came with dinner to gouge a shallow mark in the floor. He was in the middle of doing so one day when the door slammed open, hitting him in the head and knocking him onto his back, where his head cracked against the floor. Patton bit his lip to keep himself from screaming, not sure if he had already. That … hurt. That really, really hurt.

What was going on? Nobody usually came in, unless it was to either take him or Virgil away. Were they going to take him?

His vision swam as two men—Brothers, he knew them from his life Before—picked him up by his collar and threw him to the bed. Patton gasped, the motion making his stomach turn unpleasantly.

The men were saying something, their mouths moving, their eyes wrinkled angrily. Patton tried as subtly as possible to slide backwards, but one of them grabbed him again, this time catching his skin along with his collar. He pulled him up; Patton’s chest hitched at the pain.

The man shoved him up against the wall, leaning in close until their noses almost touched. He spoke fast, angrily, spit flying onto Patton’s cheeks. He tried to wriggle away, but the man—Brother Hadley—held him fast. He kept speaking, and he was clearly mad about something, and Patton couldn’t get away. He’d been working out, why was his body suddenly so weak? He wanted to fight back, wanted to push Brother Hadley to the floor and pin him down, sweeping the other person’s legs out underneath him, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough.

Instead of the anger that had been so close to the surface ever since Virgil disappeared, fear rose up in his chest. Patton wanted to be mad that he was seconds away from sobbing, but he wasn’t. He was just so, _so_ scared. After several seconds of him trying to look anywhere but in Brother Hadley’s eyes, the man slapped him—hard—and threw him to the ground. Patton stayed as still as possible, watching their feet walk out of the room. As soon as the door shut again, he slowly sat up, not quite convinced that they wouldn’t come right back.

He gently traced his stinging face, certain that there was a red hand-print there. He reached back and gently probed the point of impact on the back of his head, his hand coming away sticky and red. More blood trickled down his forehead from where the door hit him, but that seemed like a fairly small cut. He needed to get up and wash the wounds, he knew, but he was still reeling from whatever had just happened.

They were angry, but why? Patton hadn’t done anything—had Virgil done something? Had Virgil … died?

Patton shook his head (causing the world to tilt dizzyingly), trying to force himself away from thinking about that. Virgil was probably in a lot of pain, but he couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be.

So why were they so mad?

-

They came back the next day and made Patton sit on the bed. The two men were less angry today, wearing lab coats, Brother Hadley holding a clipboard while Brother Gracer examined his head, turning it this way and that in order to see the irritated wounds. Patton tried to hold still, but it was hard! Brother Gracer was probing at the gashes, making it impossible to not flinch.

After ten agonizing minutes of the two exchanging unhearable words, Brother Gracer pushed him down rather roughly and straddled his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. Patton’s breath caught in his throat—what was happening? Again, his arms were jelly. He strained and gasped, but he could no sooner push the man off than he could hear.

Brother Gracer shined a light down his ears, wrenching his head from one side to the other so that he could see both. He drew back slightly to say something to Brother Hadley, then leaned in closer. Patton held his breath, his whole body high-strung as the man pulled something from his pocket. Then there was something in his ear and—

Cold? Yes, cold, so very very cold. Patton shivered. Ear drops, and they weren’t burning or hurting so much he wanted to pass out, just normal ear drops. Father had made him use some once years ago, when he’d been sick.

Brother Gracer dripped them into Patton’s other ear, then rolled off him. Patton took a deep breath, coughing slightly. Before he could really process what was happening, there were fingers in his hair and Brother Hadley was pulling him off the bed and throwing him to the floor. Patton scrabbled to catch himself, failing and scraping his elbow on the floor. The world spun sickeningly, but he froze, eyes closed, tense and waiting for a kick.

Nothing, and several long moments later, he felt the vibration of the door shutting. When he looked up, he was alone.

Over the next week, as Patton lay in bed, trying to recover from what was certainly a concussion, he hoped with everything in him that they were treating Virgil better than they were him. He shoved away the logical words in his head that pointed out it was impossible, with how long he’d been away, and that maybe he would have to accept that—

No. No, Patton couldn’t.

Not when he hadn’t even gotten to say I love you.

Not when he hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

-

Another day, another gouge in the floor. The push-ups were easier, and Patton could see that his arms looked a bit thicker. Maybe next time someone came in to grab him, he’d be able to fight back.

Not that he would fight back. Not until Virgil returned. What kind of boyf—what kind of friend would he be if he left Virgil behind?

He was now piling both blankets atop the mattress he lifted, and he knew that soon enough he’d be able to add the second mattress. He practiced throwing punches the way Virgil showed him against the mattress propped against the wall, making certain to put as much bodily force behind them as possible. He liked to imagine that it was one of the Prophets.

It was pretty easy, now, to realize what a sham this place was. The Prophets were brother and sister, leading their ‘humble truth’ as the two holiest beings on earth. They claimed that they were angels sent down to show their followers the way home, and that they were the only people with the authority to commune with God.

Now Patton saw how fake that was. And he’d bought it, hook, line, and sinker.

Had Father known the truth? Had that been why he disappeared?

Whether or not Father had known didn’t matter anymore. He was gone, and had been for some time.

Like Virgil.

No, not like Virgil, because unlike Father, Virgil was coming back. It would happen any day now. Patton just needed to be ready for him. Virgil would be sick, and in pain, but ultimately he would be okay and then they could both get strong enough to take down the workers in the Lab—because they were certainly in the Lab, despite Patton having never been inside. Nowhere else in the Haven was there a building big enough for the hallways they’d dragged Patton down when they tried to fix his ears.

He had to assume that’s what they were trying to do, at least. It had been an invasive and painful operation, one that Patton was glad was out of his line of vision. If he’d had to watch, it would have been so much worse. Even so, they had held the bloody needles above him as—

No, he couldn’t think about it. It just made his ears ache. Patton sighed and pushed his aching body into the sit-up position.

-

Virgil had always said that the outside world was huge. That they could spend literal years exploring and they still wouldn’t see everything. The only thing that made Patton think he wasn’t exaggerating was Father’s book of maps, the tome thick and filled with hundreds upon hundreds of maps. Of course it would take years to see all of that. What almost shocked Patton more was Virgil telling him about his living experience.

He had been going to … a school? Like, being taught, but with thousands of other people his age. Patton could only name four people his age, let alone thousands. And they all learned different things and basically lived at the school, but they could leave if they wanted. And they could eat when they wanted, and watch movies. Patton’s only experience with movies was the projector screens in church and the charity hall, where sometimes they would watch short films on doctrine or about how safe the Haven was—which Patton now knew wasn’t true. But it was difficult to wrap his head around the fact that people Outside apparently made and watched movies for fun, about any topic.

It was concepts of the outer world that Patton thought about, now that he was alone. Someday, he would get to see it all for himself. Hopefully it wouldn’t be so confusing in person. He worked out day after day with no end in sight, he slept cold and alone, he ate quickly and showered efficiently.

He counted the marks on the floor, waiting for the day Virgil would come back. When Virgil returned, he was going to wrap him in his arms and hold him for three days straight, then they would break out.

As soon as Virgil returned.

Patton counted the marks on the floor, stopping to gouge a new one at the end of the line. Virgil would be back soon. He had to be.

Patton finished carving the sixty-second mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this what you wanted???


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up until Friday, I had no motivation for this chapter. I’d written maybe a fourth of it (I wasn’t too far behind, though, because I’d already written ch 16 and part of 17!). Friday, I found where I wanted it to go and wrote another fourth! Then Saturday evening, my heart stopped. The document had been deleted when someone other than me had shut down the computer without saving it (which, yeah, is sort of my fault lol). I managed to recover everything except the fourth I had written the previous day, and I couldn’t find the motivation to rewrite it.  
> So this chapter sat, barely worked-on, due to be out in a few days. And I’m out of town all day today (this is queued), so I really only had Monday to work on it after I procrastinated all weekend.
> 
> Apparently I write decently under pressure.
> 
> cw: depressing thoughts, survivor’s guilt, food mention

It was surely the middle of the night—definitely the middle of the night, Virgil realized, as he tapped his phone to hear it read the time aloud. Far too late to be up and about, and certainly too late to wake any other members of the household.

Still, Virgil slid out of bed and grabbed his earphones from the bedside table, gaining his bearings for a second before slowly moving toward his bedroom door.

He’d lived here for about two weeks, and was now decently familiar with the house. He still counted the steps until the staircase, though he thought he might be able to manage it off instinct alone, and quietly let himself out the back door in the kitchen.

The backyard was also a place Virgil was familiar with, as Roman forced him to go outside in order to ‘get a healthy amount of sunlight’. Apparently his Vitamin D levels were very low after being kept inside a single room for the past year, but he’d always looked a bit like a vampire anyhow. It probably didn’t matter too much.

Virgil stepped gingerly through the grass. He was fairly certain that there weren’t any twigs in his path, but you never know—a bird might have dropped one there with the sole purpose of incapacitating him. His hands held out in front of him, he soon enough touched the rough bark of the only tree in the yard and sat down under it, his back leaning up against the trunk. It wasn’t all that comfortable, and there were probably ants crawling on him, but Virgil couldn’t find it in him to care. Not so long ago, he’d been under the impression that he’d never even feel fresh air again, let alone ants.

He hadn’t properly had a moment alone during his whole stay, if you didn’t count lying awake for hours. He didn’t know if it was just that he wasn’t tired, or if he couldn’t sleep without Patton holding him.

At the thought of Patton’s name, Virgil felt a familiar jolt of guilt that, instead of becoming more manageable over the weeks, had only grown in intensity.

 _You need to forget him_ , Virgil told himself firmly. _Holding on to Patton is only going to hurt you_. At least, that was what his therapist kept telling him. But even the thought of letting go made Virgil feel queasy. Patton had done so much for him, had always been there. How could he just forget? How was he supposed to pretend that Patton didn’t exist?

Virgil sniffed, then adjusted his position as a root dug into his hip. He brushed over the earphones now in the pocket of his pajama pants, but didn’t withdraw them.

He felt as though, for some odd reason, he’d be doing something very wrong by not feeling guilty, by not missing Patton. It was right to be upset, right to feel as though a part of him was missing and had left a gaping hole behind. He knew he wasn’t expected to move on anytime soon.

But he was expected to move on.

It seemed so impossible.

-

“Virgil! Oh my goodness, there you are!”

Virgil started awake, his cheek pressed against something scratchy. What was happening? He pushed himself into a sitting position and reached out a hand, which was almost instantly grabbed.

“Virgil, please please _please_ don’t do that again, I had no idea—”

Virgil pulled his hand lightly, and Roman (for that was who was speaking) jerked away as if he’d been burned.

“I’m sorry, it’s just—I was so worried—”

“Roman, what’s going on?” Virgil asked. He rubbed a hand over his face, wondering why his skin was so warm. And what was tickling his legs. And why it smelled so earthy. “Are we outside?”

“Yes, my backyard,” Roman said. His voice shook, and Virgil wondered if he’d been crying. “I’m sorry for grabbing you, I’ve just been panicking.”

“Isn’t that my job?” Virgil tried for a light tone, but Roman didn’t laugh.

“Why weren’t you in bed?”

Oh. Oh. That made sense. Now he remembered not being able to sleep, and leaving the guest bedroom in favor of the backyard in the middle of the night. Immediately, Virgil was awash with guilt. Roman’s family had been nothing but hospitable, and he had the nerve to scare them so? Of course Roman would be worried, last time Virgil had disappeared from his bed he’d been kidnapped and blinded by a cult. Virgil should have know it would be upsetting, shouldn’t have sneaked out, should have just done something right for once—

“Virgil, are you all right? Do you need to do a breathing exercise?”

Of course, his legs were shaking. Virgil gripped the fabric of his pajama pants, trying to get it to stop. It didn’t work.

“Nah Romano, I’m fine,” he lied. “Just … sorry. For getting out of bed.”

“No need for apologies, I was simply worried! Would you like to go in for breakfast?”

Virgil’s right hand twitched in the air before darting to his left arm and tracing out Patton’s name. He jerked it away, but not before he felt an enormous sense of comfort. It was instantly replaced by grief, followed by a drop in his stomach. Virgil was sickened; he was getting comfort from writing his probably dea—from writing Patton’s name, even though he was probably—

 _Pull yourself together_ , he said inwardly as Roman heaved him up off the ground (he learned to be far more gentle in the days since Virgil had arrived). _Roman doesn’t want to deal with this right now. You just scared the life out of him, and he’s doing literally everything possible just to help you. You can’t beg him to help you with this too_.

The rest of the morning passed as normal, even if Virgil had to take a morning shower instead of his usual evening one—Mrs. Allred had terrible allergies, and Virgil was covered in grass. He’d been deliberately showering in the evening to avoid connotations to Patton and that room; they’d always showered in the mornings back in the room. His care seemed to be for nothing, however, as he managed to shower without any unpleasant memories or overwhelming misery. When he shared this with Roman, the man had laughed.

“Overwhelming misery? Isn’t that your normal state?” he joked. Virgil had laughed too, then felt terrible. Here he was, laughing, while Patton was still back there, and he had to go back and—

 _No. Stop that._ He shook the thoughts away. _You’re supposed to laugh. It’s okay. You need to let g—you need to let—_

The afternoon was relatively average, as well. Virgil had managed to repress his urge to try and learn ASL—pointless, he couldn’t even see the signs, so it would be doubly as hard as it might have been in the past—and was instead attending a support group for vision disabilities, as well as a private session with a teacher who was helping him learn how to get around. He clung to the white cane he’d been given like it was a lifeline—which, in many ways, it was. At these weekly private lessons, he was learning how to wield it properly, and how to use his phone, and discussing whether or not he ought to get a guide dog (the general consensus from everyone he spoke to was, inexplicably, a resounding “yes”).

That evening, after both meetings were completed, Virgil ate with Roman’s family, and had a phone call with the admissions counselor from his university. They were willing to allow him to come back to school, with the full return of his scholarships and the debt he’d collected in the year he’d “been away” negated. Honestly, Virgil felt he deserved more than that, which was what this phone call was about.

After an hour of discussion, very little progress had been made. Virgil and the man hung up, with the counselor’s promise that he would look into disability pensions and scholarships. Virgil didn’t have too much hope.

He really wanted to return to school as soon as possible, but it looked like he wouldn’t be able to until the semester after the coming one at the earliest. He knew exactly why he wanted to so badly—it wasn’t because his days weren’t busy, or because he particularly wanted to continue his education. He wanted a distraction. Some part of Virgil was convinced that if he could throw himself into schoolwork, if he could bury himself in the busyness that was college life, he could forget to worry, forget to think about Patton. Never forget him, but … just stop being so depressed. Move on, like everyone kept telling him to.

He just missed him, that was all. As long as he could tell himself that, he could make it through the day.

Virgil blinked back tears as he got ready for bed. Roman had graduated from helping him to the bathroom and into the mirror cabinet for his toothbrush and back down the hall when he was ready to just walking a few steps behind him on the way there and back. Virgil could tell that he wanted to reach out and grab him at times, and was impressed by his restraint.

Finally, he fell into bed. The day had been exhausting, but as soon as his head hit the pillow he knew that once again, sleep would not come.

He’d tried filling the bed with blankets. He’d tried sleeping on the floor. He’d tried holding a pillow. Nothing filled the space, nothing made the bed less empty.

Virgil had played with the thermostat. He’d made the room warm, then wearing-a-sweater-in-summer warm, then sweltering hot. Nothing seemed to steal the chill, the lonely cold that hung in the space around him without a body to hold.

There was no Patton, anymore. Patton was gone. Patton was gone, and Virgil escaped. He could talk to anyone he wanted. He could go anywhere he wanted. There was constantly someone at his side, someone talking to him (too loud, far much louder than the silence he was used to). He had all the people in the world.

Virgil had never felt so alone in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit to pizzaworks for suggesting that they write each others' names on their arm to calm down!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you said you wanted to see Patton, right?
> 
> cw: intense starvation (not self-inflicted), spiraling thoughts
> 
> This chapter will be summarized in the end note, seeing as it has detailed descriptions of starvation, and I know that could be a trigger. Before the first dash should be safe to read.

Patton had never felt so alone in his life.

It was one of those middle-of-the-night feelings sessions. In the past, he and Virgil (and before that, Father) would sit up together, tracing reassurances onto each others’ arms.

Now, the dent in the bed where Virgil had laid was empty. The room was too silent without the vibrations of Virgil’s chest under Patton’s cheek. Too cold without another body to cling to. Too dark without Virgil’s smile.

Loneliness is terrible in its perfection. Too deep to portray, yet too poignant to leave be. The bared soul, without match, beautifully and woefully alone. Without the force of the other to support, one cracks under the weight of the silence. Where is the armor once worn? Where is the protection once fiercely given?

Gone.

And the lone is left unprotected.

Perhaps it was the chill air of the night, the first crisp bites of autumn, that made Patton suddenly, and finally, break down. He hadn’t been cold with Virgil around him, but now there was no buffer. No one wrapped around him, whispering soft, calming words that he couldn’t hear. No touch so warm it felt like the safest fire, making his heart flutter and face burn.

Nothing, except the grey darkness of a room meant for two. The thick, metal door. The two beds, one layered in dust. The seventy-six scrapes chiseled into the floor.

And Patton. Alone in a room he was never meant to be alone in.

He let himself cry.

-

Patton attacked his workout regime with a new vigor the next morning, even though every fiber of his being wanted to hide under the blankets and keep crying, ignoring the breakfast pushed through the flap in the door.

Instead, he rolled out of bed before it arrived and immediately fell into his first set of push-ups. After completing twenty of them, he continued routine by washing his body the best he could under the faucet with the new, large-ish bar of soap that had appeared there a week prior.

Patton wrapped the spare blanket around his waist as he stepped out of the curtained-off section of the room. Virgil’s jacket quickly found itself wrapped around his relatively-dry shoulders, and Patton sat down to await the morning meal.

It didn’t come.

At first, Patton thought he was just being silly by worrying. They had never forgotten to give him food in the past, his internal clock was probably just messed up from his late-night cry.

As the hours dragged by, though, past when lunch was normally given, nothing happened.

They’d finally given up on him, hadn’t they? Something that they wrote down onto their clipboards must not have been good enough. Maybe they’d seen him exercising and decided that he needed to be weakened.

Maybe something had happened to Virgil, and there was no point in keeping one without the other.

 _It’s okay_ , Patton told himself, though he could feel his heart begin to race. _You’re okay, and you’re going to get through this. Maybe they’re just busy, or something’s taking longer than they thought it would, and they’ll bring dinner. It’s okay._

It wasn’t okay, but Patton thought it might be were Virgil there.

He shook off the fear and made himself wash his clothes. Something to keep busy! When that was done and there was still far too much time, Patton brushed at the marks in the floor, wondering why on earth he hadn’t put them on the wall. They were starting to spread from the corner beside the door to encompass more of the room, a sure problem, as he did walk on the floor. The carvings were going to fade away—they weren’t very deep, after all, and Patton did plenty of walking.

Next he approached the mattress propped against the wall and spent a good amount of time punching it, working on how to hit with more force while expending as little of his energy as possible in the process. He was certainly becoming more muscular, the slight lines on his arms becoming more defined, making it easier than it would have been in the past. He was getting better at keeping his punches contained, not wild, and had recently found that turning one’s fist at the last second packed a little extra power.

Eventually, though, Patton had to stop. He was feeling just a bit lightheaded from the lack of food and the continued physical exertion. He fell onto the bed, though he was kept awake for another few hours at least by a growing headache and slight pangs in his stomach. It was going to be okay, there would be breakfast tomorrow. They weren’t just going to let him die.

-

There was no breakfast, or lunch, or dinner the next day. Nor the day after that. By the fourth day, Patton had completely stopped exercising, saving his strength for when he needed to make the long trip from the bed to the faucet. His headache had grown exponentially, particularly in his temples and around his eyes, making him want to sleep the pain away. Every morning though, it just became worse.

Possibly more terrible than his headache was the clawing of hunger in his stomach. What had started as light pangs were now streaks of fire, cramping all his muscles and confining him to bed, gasping through the pain.

He lay in bed, arms clutched around his stomach, every once in a while wondering vaguely what was going to happen to him. They couldn’t let him die, could they? They wouldn’t. They may have all been insane cultists, but they were still human. There had to be good in them somewhere.

Patton forced himself out of bed and onto his feet, pulling the zippered edges of Virgil’s jacket around him. He staggered on unsteady feet to the faucet, falling just as he reached it to duck his mouth into the spray. He gulped down as much as he could, certain that if he could get to a point where he was used to the pain, he’d be fine, he just needed to stay hydrated.

He was correct; after two more days, he felt much less pain. His headache was a dull pounding in the background, the pangs of hunger had quieted as his body began using up his natural stores in order to stay functional. He fell back into a very light exercise routine, knowing he would burn through the little he had faster if he was very active, so it was restricted to ten push-ups a day and less than ten minutes of punching the mattress. Patton knew he needed to stop altogether, but couldn’t bring himself to. For one thing, he was bored. For another, there was nothing he wanted more than to punch one of those keeping him captive, and he wouldn’t be able to effectively do that without a moderate level of strength.

Patton forced himself to stay in bed when he wasn’t up exercising or getting a drink of water, the latter of which he tried to do as often as possible. Most of the day he slept, then lay awake at night, his thoughts too loud to let him rest.

Days passed, too many days, far too many days. Patton stopped the exercise altogether. He could see his ribs without stretching, the bones in his hands were stark under taut skin, hollows had appeared in his cheeks. His fingers became clumsy and his head rather light. The scrapes on the floor blurred before his eyes when he stumbled across the room for water, his vision going black and remaining that way until he was sitting again.

Most days, at this point, were spent imagining interactions between himself and Virgil. They would meet again, Outside (what did the Outside even look like?) and hug. Patton would hug Virgil so tightly, and never let go, except to gently pull his arms through the sleeves of his hoodie. They would be silent for a long, long, time, just reveling in each other. Patton would lean his head on Virgil, feel his heartbeat. Virgil would bury his face in Patton’s too-long hair like he so frequently did, running his fingers through it. When they could again, they would talk in their own special way, hands twisting shapes onto the other’s arm, _I love you_ over and over and over again.

Finally they would finish the book, and read another book, and another and another and another. They would leave—Patton could scarcely imagine it—they would go places outside of a single room, to eat and walk and whatever else people did Outside. Shopping, Virgil had told him about shopping, so they would do that. Patton was willing to go anywhere and do anything, if only Virgil was there. Patton would walk unfaltering into Hell itself if Virgil’s hand was in his.

He’d tried to deny it at first, but he truly loved Virgil. He’d never known two men to love like this—like this meaning like how Father had loved Mother, like how a husband loved his wife, love that lasted forever. He didn’t understand it, didn’t understand this romantic love that seemed to contradict with the strict man-and-woman rule that protected it, but lack of understanding only made it even more beautiful. This love was the sun shining out of Virgil’s smile, the comfort of Virgil’s heartbeat under his head, the way his chin fit perfectly into Patton’s cupped hands. It was the way Virgil’s tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth when he was tracing something funny into Patton’s arm, the time he could barely breathe while laughing at one of Patton’s puns, how safe Patton felt safe in his arms.

This love was nondiscriminatory, every part of Virgil fitting perfectly with every part of Patton. They completed each other, they knew each other, they were a pair and they were in love—

At least, Patton was in love.

What if … what if Virgil didn’t return his affections? What if Virgil didn’t feel this connection, this fathomless love that Patton felt for him?

It was fruitless to imagine, though, Patton reminded himself. He had to accept it—Virgil was … he was… .

Virgil was gone.

That day, some unbelievably long time into the days that were passing without food, Patton felt something crack inside. Virgil was gone, he wasn’t coming back. He was gone. Virgil was gone.

Patton was dying. He was going to die here. Even if Virgil was somehow ali—somehow okay, Patton wouldn’t ever be able to tell him how he felt. His time was up. A sob tore from his throat, but other than that and the cracking in his chest, Patton felt strangely at peace.

As lights dimmed (the lighting wired through solar panels, Patton remembered Father explaining them to him one day as he played in the crunchy grass outside the building) on what would be the seventeenth day, Patton closed his eyes, too weak to crawl to the faucet in the corner of the room, and slept, not knowing if he would wake up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Patton is increasingly lonely as time passes. Food stops being delivered. Patton becomes weaker and stops working out. The chapter ends on the seventeenth day without food, when Patton acknowledges that he might die.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this chapter. Patton practically wrote it himself, I feel like I barely had any control over what happened. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> cw: starvation, food, violence, blood mention, death mention

Patton woke, not with the lights as he expected (which were on already), but to arms around him. The contact set his skin on fire in a good way, making some starved monster that had been aching deep inside raise its head and roar. He looked up, his eyes blurry without his glasses, which he’d let drop to the floor some days ago. Whoever was holding him had a bandanna over their face, dusty clothing, and heat radiating from them. Patton fumbled for his glasses, the person not letting him go.

Once he had located them and put them on his face, he looked up at the man holding him. A hat hung on a drawstring around his neck, his graying hair was swept to one side, and the eyes behind those glasses… .

Father.

Patton surged forward into his arms. Father shook, but Patton wasn’t sure whether he was crying or laughing. It didn’t matter, because now they were finally together.

A horrible thought occurred to Patton, and he pulled back long enough to sign “ _Am I dead?_ ”

Father’s arms squeezed tighter as he shook his head, over and over again. With one hand, he pulled down the bandanna over his face. “ _No,_ ” he finally managed to sign. “ _No, we’re getting you out of here._ ”

Patton’s heart leapt into his throat. Out? Like, into the Outside? Or was Father just here to take him back home, back to their house down the block where life would go back to normal? Patton didn’t want normal anymore, though. Everything from his past life had become obsolete when it was just him and Virgil and the room. He had never truly believed that a life would follow—deep down, he knew that they were there either until the cultists released them into the Haven or ended their lives, just another experiment. He and Virgil had imagined, of course, a life Outside, but it was impossible.

Father held him for far longer than he normally would, only pulling back to sign, “ _You’re so thin. Have they not been feeding you?_ ”

Patton could have laughed, could have cried, but instead burrowed closer into his father’s chest. He was so cold.

Eventually, Father stood up, saying something to a man in heavy-looking gear who Patton had not noticed in the doorway. The man spoke into funny thing that looked like a tiny wireless. Patton tried to get up, his vision blacking out, and Father pushed him back onto the bed. He did his best to blink back the blackness. An enormous amount of apprehension had filled his chest, now that Father was not holding him—was he hallucinating? He had become cold again without Father’s touch, as if he’d never been there. Perhaps he wasn’t.

Moments later, a woman appeared, also in the heavy gear and helmet, holding something foil-wrapped and a bottle of water. Father took the foiled bundle and unwrapped it, handing what was in it to Patton. He sat beside him again and helped him to sit up. With his burning touch, Patton knew he had to be real. There was no chance this could be a hallucination—he hadn’t remembered what it felt like to be touched by anyone but Virgil for months.

The bundle contained jerky and crackers, which Patton tore into with no restraint. The flavor exploded onto his tongue, and the hunger that Patton had been ignoring for so long it seemed to not exist woke, tearing apart his stomach. After only a few bites, Father pulled him back a bit from the delicious food, signing “ _You’ll make yourself sick, Patton._ ”

Patton felt his eyes burn at the appearance of his sign name, but sniffed back the tears. “ _Dad,_ ” he managed, before falling back onto the bed. Father once again held him, Patton’s skin burning where he touched.

-

They remained in the abhorrent room for a long time, occasionally men and women passing in to speak to Father. Patton felt exhausted, but couldn’t sleep. Every so often Father would help him sit up and eat a couple of bites and drink a mouthful of water before laying him down again.

Father was signing random sentences here and there, trying to explain what was going on. Patton still didn’t know where Father had been or where he’d come from, but he and the Outsiders were here to get him out.

The Outsiders looked very different from Virgil, but Patton supposed that they were prepared for fighting. Patton felt bad for them—the darker colors of their clothing and armor would be sweltering, even this late in the year.

Father didn’t say anything for a long time, just buried his face into Patton’s hair and held him tighter. Patton almost cried several times, but he restrained himself. Tears generally made Father uncomfortable, and Patton didn’t want him to pull away.

After some time, Father helped him up. Patton was very shaky on his feet, but he tried not to let it show. Were they getting out, really? It didn’t feel real at all, it felt like he was going to wake up any moment, his headache worse than ever and his bones almost sticking out of his skin.

Father continued to almost hug him as he supported Patton out of the room. Father had never been very keen on hugs, but Patton wasn’t complaining. He loved hugs, was starving for physical contact, and was still very cold, despite the heat. However, Father let go of him halfway down the hall, making sure he was steady enough to walk before tracking down one of the many Outsiders to talk. There were more armored men and women rushing through the hall, their eyes passing over him and then pulling back to examine his face, before continuing on.

Patton felt uncomfortable, out of his element. He had no idea who these people were, or why they were here, and Father’s brief explanations had done very little to help.

A door opened in front of him, and Patton stepped out. He was almost blinded, and immediately slapped his hands over his eyes. It was so very bright—Patton had forgotten exactly how bright the sun was. The smell of sun-baked earth filled his nostrils, and Patton gasped as he breathed it in. That was such a nostalgic smell, and he almost threw up the little he’d been able to eat. That meant the Haven, that meant outside, that meant walking to church on Sundays and walking home to see Father during lunch. Patton both wanted to inhale as much of it as he could, and go back inside where it was still a mere memory, a remnant of the life that he could never have again. Turning slightly, though, he caught a whiff of the rubbing alcohol and mildew of the lab, and knew he could never go back into that.

Patton lowered one of his hands tentatively, rubbing his fingers on the stitching of Virgil’s jacket, which he’d been wearing properly for the past few days. This was okay, Father was somewhere nearby. Right? Where was he? He wasn’t right here, he was gone, like Virgil, he would never get him back—

 _You can’t seen him if you don’t open your eyes_ , Patton told himself. He moved his other hand away from his face and squinted, blinking furiously to try and see. After only a few moments, he caught sight of Father and felt relief flood his very being. Father was only a few feet away, talking to another person, this one not in bulky gear, but wearing a button-up with jeans. In fact, looking around, Patton realized that those in gear were a minority—most of the people here were dressed nicely, but not for fighting.

Now decently accustomed to the brightness, Patton looked around. There was a child peering out of a nearby window, and a group of Outsiders clustered around some people a good thirty feet away, but other than that, the Haven looked fairly empty. Where was everyone?

Father took his arm and Patton flinched, then looked at him properly, as he’d taken the wonderful chance to do every few seconds so far. Patton studied the extra lines in his forehead, trying to rewrite his internal picture of the man. His hair was so much more grey than he’d last seen, stubble coated his chin, his cheeks were a little thinner, but the rest matched perfectly.

Father ruffled his hair, a tear slipping from his eye. Father never cried, and Patton found himself becoming uncomfortable. Was this what it was like when Patton cried—Father couldn’t bear to see him unhappy, and so didn’t know what to do? It was so different with Virgil, so much easier to read the cues in his body language. Perhaps it would be polite to act as though he hadn’t noticed it. Patton did his best to smile, then turned his attention back to the large group. It was clearing a bit, and he saw familiar faces, hands being pulled behind backs and handcuffs snapping shut around them. Two people . . . a man and a woman … Haven-made clothes and haughty looks—the Prophet and Prophetess.

Patton tamped down the anger that surged through him suddenly, even though it was already sending adrenaline to his body. These were the heads of the cult, the people who started this, the people who took Virgil and then took his vision. If they’d done that to Virgil, how many others had there been? How many had suffered on their orders?

He was still being supported and led by Father, but with the amount of energy that was flooding through him he doubted he needed it. Patton tried not to think about the fact that the two people, only feet away from him as he and Father were passing quite near them, had caused so much heartache and pain and destruction. They had hurt Father, they had hurt him, they had hurt Virgil, and they had probably hurt countless others. They had—

He couldn’t admit it.

He had to.

They had probably ordered the blow that killed Virgil.

Patton’s body moved of its own accord as his eyes met the disdainful eyes of the Prophet. One moment, Father was helping him walk, the next, he was launching himself at the Prophet.

Patton was weak. He hadn’t been able to walk in days, had grown so thin over the past couple of weeks that he barely had any muscle mass. However, Patton had been rigorously attacking a mattress for months, picturing the faces of every cultist that had ever done him wrong, and by this point he knew very well how to throw a punch. The left hook hit the Prophet’s nose with the entire weight of Patton’s body behind it, and Patton felt something crack beneath his fist as the man crumpled.

Blood spurted from the Prophet’s face from where he lay on the ground, dust still settling from the small clouds that had puffed up around him. There was a commotion around, but Patton paid no attention, merely shaking out his hand before drawing back his other fist, not sure if he was going to jump toward the Prophetess or dive and pummel the man on the ground. Nothing existed except Patton, his anger, and those on the receiving end of it. Before he could do anything else, though, the moment ended and four different people were holding him back.

Patton fought his hands free as he was dragged away; looking the Prophetess dead in the eyes, he flipped up both middle fingers. He gritted his teeth in vicious pleasure as she flinched away.

Almost instantly, there were people obscuring his vision of the Prophets, and as they vanished from sight so did all his energy. There were still four or five people holding on to him, and he slumped in their arms. After several long minutes of discussion, they let him go, and Father was there again, holding him up. Father’s bandanna was pulled up over his nose again and he didn’t look at Patton, but as Patton searched his face, one of his eyes slid shut in a subtle wink.

Patton grinned, before what felt like all the oxygen leaving his head suddenly stole through his body. His knees buckled, and the last thought that crossed his mind before all went black was how dusty his pants were going to be when he woke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patton really went "I'd like to go feral please" huh  
> and then he just did


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Patton today! I wasn’t a big fan of writing Pat before this fic lol, now I love seeing him. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> cw: angst, hospitals (not near as intense as the last hospital chapter, but let me know if I should put a chapter description in the end note)

“Say it again.”

Logan sighed. “Patton broke the Prophet’s nose.”

“He had it coming!” Remus crowed. Logan tried to not smile, but judging by Remus’s continued snorts of laughter, he failed.

It was two days after the successful mission that resulted in the takedown of the Haven. Patton was asleep, still in the hospital. The doctors were mostly concerned about what seemed to be melted portions of his ear canals, once they were certain that he was going to recover from his starvation.

Patton was dreadfully thin, little more than skin and bones, and yet he still smiled whenever he was awake, conversed excitedly with him, exchanged a few stilted signs with Remus, who was only just learning ASL. Right now though, in his sleep, he seemed less than content. He shifted regularly, the blanket curled in his fists, his brows drawn in a frown. The jacket he refused to let leave his sight was draped over the foot of the bed, smelling much nicer than it had earlier—Remus had taken it upon himself to smuggle it out of the hospital and wash it, only having just returned.

This was only Remus’s second visit with Patton. Patton recognized him from the cult, and was thus not incredibly open to him, but he was polite, which was more than Logan could hope for. Patton being here, being alive, was more than Logan could hope for.

-

The mission had been stressful. Logan had been prepared to leave with two day’s notice, yet it seemed that everything that could go wrong did. Logan wasn’t superstitious, but he found himself thinking back to the night before leaving, when he’d told Remus that the plan was simple, and that they would have to try to mess it up. He should have knocked on wood.

First, nobody had bothered to tell him that they were fairly certain the cult had been relocating for the past couple of weeks. In small groups, people were exiting the settlement and only one person was coming back. Nobody had set foot inside the laboratory for days, instead, all residents were meeting in the communal dining area in the morning, and randomly moving to the church. For all anyone knew, Patton was no longer even in the Haven—and Logan knew, perhaps better than anyone, just how possible it was that the cult had ‘disposed of the latest experiment’.

There was an entire squad sent by the FBI, as well as far too police and forensics workers, a handful of lawyers, two detectives, and several rubberneckers. For a stealth takedown, that was not exactly the team that Logan would have brought. They were too noisy, and visible from a mile away.

When they were halfway to the settlement, two tires blew. Logan had had to bite his tongue in order to not scream in frustration, but there was nothing to be done. Forty minutes later, they were back on the road.

Until a civilian’s engine stopped.

Two hours later, they reached the Haven. It looked much like Logan remembered, except with the beginnings of a paving project for walks up to houses. There wasn’t time to look around, though—Patton was possibly somewhere around, and he had to be found as soon as possible.

That ambition was quickly shut down, however, when they were confronted by the Prophets, backed by what seemed to be half the men in the Haven. What followed was a long discussion of rights, which only served to make Logan more and more anxious. He happened to know quite a bit about laws and rights, having been studying them over the past year—he was back in school part-time as a law major. He shared his insights and opinions with the only person he knew here: the detective who had been handling the case since the beginning. The man brought Logan’s words into the argument, which, against his hopes, did not speed up the process.

Eventually, the Prophets became hostile, and some of the Haven men began to threaten with physical violence, which gave the police officers more than enough reason to arrest them. Logan was honestly surprised they hadn’t acted immediately. He’d received the impression that the police force acted with very little (if any at all) evidence and responded violently to retaliation.

It didn’t take too long to find Patton. Remus had told him in advance (rather sorrowfully, knowing he wouldn’t be able to accompany the group) what cell his son was in, and Logan knew the halls of the laboratory very well. He’d been rather detached from his actions all day, even more so when they entered the Haven, and he finally realized that he was disconnected so as to not become violently ill. This was where he’d lived, imprisoned, for years. The people here had caused the death of his wife, had tortured his son. Logan was barely holding himself back from destroying everything he passed.

Once found, Logan didn’t let go of Patton for an hour at least. The boy was shaking, his skin was cold to the touch, the bones that formed his face were clearly visible under taut skin. Still, he was alive, and Logan couldn’t be happier.

The scientists hadn’t stopped feeding Patton out of any seriously malicious intent. The cultists had abandoned all work in the lab in their preparations for escape, neglecting every experiment—including Patton, the only human experiment there.

Patton could walk, by some miracle, and was finally able to leave the building, Logan just behind him to catch him if he faltered. His son looked so happy, letting the sun hit his face. A lump formed in Logan’s throat, and he looked away from his bright eyes after ruffling his hair lightly, marveling at how long it was.

Seeing Patton punch the Prophet brought a smile so wide to Logan’s face that he’d had to pull his bandanna back up, chuckling lightly in a way he thought he could pass off as a cough. All mirth vanished, though, when Patton’s eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed.

There was a flurry of activity, but Logan was the first to reach Patton. He gripped his son tightly, pretending that a tear did not slip out of the corner of his eye. He was going to be okay, he had to be okay, they had just been reunited!

Patton didn’t respond to Logan’s shaking of him. An animalistic sound tore from Logan’s throat as he let the tears fall. The world closed in, smaller and smaller, until all that existed was him and his unconscious son who was certainly dying. Logan’s hands were fists curled into the back of Patton’s faded blue shirt, and he hugged his son to his chest, shaking off anyone who got too near.

Someone managed to tear them apart, and Logan fought. He kicked and yelled, tearing at their skin with his fingernails, trying to keep Patton is his sight as he watched several people lift him onto a stretcher and place him in the back of a van, before driving away.

Logan slumped against the officer holding him, hearing the man say something about stress and trauma to someone else. He managed to get control of his tears after a few minutes, sniffing and wiping his eyes on the inside of his sleeve. The detective was watching him pityingly, and Logan rolled his aching eyes. He didn’t need this, these feelings. He had to focus.

The detective approached him cautiously, asking if he needed to leave to be with Patton sooner. Logan waved him off. They needed him here, he was the only one with insider expertise.

As he provided his opinions and knowledge, though, his thoughts were with a black van, speeding across a dusty desert to the nearest hospital.

-

Patton was still on oxygen, but it was no longer a tube down his throat. Just a small tube poking into his nostrils, and it looked like he would be off it very soon. He was going to need to meet with a psychiatrist, a physical therapist, and a nutritionist for at least the next six months, likely extending to a year. Patton was severely underweight and was having trouble keeping down food at the moment, but the doctors were all hopeful for a full recovery. In fact, they thought he would be able to go home within the week.

Logan had been busy prepping a space for him in the spare bedroom of his apartment. Remus had graciously offered to move to a sleeping bag on the living room floor—not that Logan was going to let him stay in the bed once Patton was home.

Remus eventually left the hospital room, muttering something about work. Logan continued to stare at his boy, constantly reassuring himself that Patton was indeed still there, and was not going to disappear.

They’d have to look into school, and Patton would be so confused. Of course, he did not need a higher education, but Logan had always had aspirations of any child of his becoming wildly successful. His love did not depend on this, though. As long as Patton was happy, he would be.

Still, if Patton desired to attend university… . Logan had homeschooled him as well as he could, and Patton could almost certainly attain a high school diploma. After that, what were Patton’s interests? Helping people? He could become a teacher—it would be hard, but perhaps at a school for the deaf? Patton had always enjoyed his job working in the Haven kitchens, so perhaps a chef or a baker? Logan’s mind spun as he thought of all the things Patton could do, a pleasure he’d always denied himself of in the past. Patton’s world was open now, he could move up, he could do whatever he wanted. He was no longer restrained by the cult’s strict set of rules and limited options.

Logan felt like a new father all over again—Patton’s liberation seemed to have led to his rebirth. All the joys that had been missing from watching a baby grow up were now available, and Logan wiped away a tear as he imagined all the things his baby boy would grow up to be.

-

Patton woke with a start, pulling Logan out of his thoughts. Patton looked around frantically, only calming when his eyes fell on the purple-patched jacket laying at his feet. Before he could even ask for it, Logan had leaned over and handed it to him.

Patton pressed the jacket to his face, then froze. Logan waited patiently for him to bring it down, his veins filling with ice. Was there something wrong with it? Was Patton recalling something traumatic? What was wrong?

Patton sniffled, then let the jacket fall to his lap. His lip trembled as he clumsily signed, impeded by the IV in his hand, “ _Did you wash it?_ ”

“ _Remus did._ ” Logan was still not sure what was wrong, but knew he did not want to have Patton upset with him already. “ _Is something wrong?_ ”

Patton shook his head, but his face crumpled. It had to have something to do with the quality of the jacket before it was washed.

“ _Patton,_ ” Logan tried to reason, “ _It smelled like that place._ ”

Patton shook his head more fiercely, tears spilling from his eyes. “ _It smelled like him!_ ” he insisted. His hands shook as he signed. “ _It was the only thing left! You took it away!_ ”

The heart monitor beeped as Patton cried harder. Logan was frozen, not sure what to do. Should he hug him? Turn away and let him cry? He still felt that he was right to wash it—it had smelled horrible—but he felt inexplicably guilty. He didn’t want to see his baby boy cry, especially over something he’d done.

A nurse bustled in, and Logan stepped back hurriedly. The nurse checked Patton’s vitals, tried to get him to calm down; Patton sobbed into the jacket, which he had brought back to his face, as if to try and find vestiges of the old scent. Logan felt utterly helpless as another of the hospital staff entered. He tried to look anywhere but at Patton’s watery, accusing eyes, his own eyes falling instead down. As they were kept trained on the floor, he saw in his peripheral vision Patton tracing something, over and over, into his own arm.

Somewhere, deep down, Logan’s healing heart broke a tiny bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm a little bit sorry about the angst


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry all, I don't have the energy to properly edit this lol. Feel free to point out any grievous errors

Patton was antsy all the way home from the hospital. Home—it was such a strange word. He didn’t even know what it looked like. When he said ‘home’ to himself, he pictured the one-floor Haven house on the dirt street, lined on either side with identical houses. He pictured Father in that living room, wearing his lab coat and Haven-made clothes, sitting next to a picture of Patton’s mother. When Father told him he was going to have his own room again, he pictured Virgil.

Patton didn’t want his own room.

Remus, a man that Patton remembered seeing in the Haven, was also living at this so-called home. Remus smiled a lot, and when he first came to visit Patton in the hospital, had given him a teddy bear. Patton wasn’t sure how to feel about this. Very few children in the Haven had toys past the age of ten, and he had only ever had a homemade jump rope and a doll made from scraps of rags. He remembered jealously watching other children play outside with their few toys and stuffed animals traded for from Outsider salesmen, but Father never got him one, despite his pleading. It was weird to have one now, in a world where it was not a novelty item, but commonplace.

Patton wondered how Remus had found out he’d wanted one.

The buildings around them were varied, huge. Patton was feeling rather sick from the car ride, but continued to look out the window in amazement. What did people need these huge buildings for? What did they do there?

Finally, they arrived at the apartment building Father called home. Father stopped the car—there were maybe two cars in all of Haven, and Patton couldn’t help but wonder where Father had learned to drive—and gave Patton a nervous smile, to which Patton responded in kind. All his possessions were whatever clothes from the Haven that Father had grabbed (which were now too large), Virgil’s hoodie, and his new teddy bear. He carried the bear with him as they entered the building, the clothes in a black plastic bag in Father’s hand.

The building stunk, an acrid scent that made Patton scrunch up his nose in distaste. It was dark too, seemingly lit solely by the glass panes around the door that they had entered through. They had not come in the main door of the building, which was around the other side. The door they entered led onto a landing, stairs hugging the walls above and below. Was this really home?

Father led Patton straight up a staircase, bypassing every door as Patton stopped beside them. Eventually, when Patton stopped after the sixth staircase, panting for breath, Father went down the hall and unlocked and opened a door on the left side, then ushered Patton through it.

This place was certainly nicer than the rest of the building that Patton had seen so far. It smelled a little like bleach, but mostly like cinnamon or nutmeg (with the stench of the rest of the building in the background). Patton had always loved the smell of cinnamon. Had Father really remembered that, and somehow made this place smell like something comforting to Patton?

The door opened into a living room, which had clearly been hastily cleaned. A pillow and a blanket were haphazardly draped over the small couch, and the only other piece of furniture was a faded yellow armchair, not at all matching the peeling leather of the couch.

A kitchen led off from the living room, a yellowed refrigerator overlooking cramped counter tops. Rectangular boxes were haphazardly balanced atop the appliance. The lights were off in the kitchen, and as Patton strained to get a better look at the tiny space, Father led him down a thin hall.

One door off the hall led to a bathroom, which looked pretty average as bathrooms go. It was similar to the one they’d had in the house back at the Haven, a one-cube shower and a small toilet with a cabinet under the sink.

Once again Father led him past, into a room that was best described as quaint. The bed was thin, the mattress cushier than he expected as he sat on it experimentally. The floor, like the floor of the living room and hall, was carpeted in a scratchy grey. The walls were a pale off-white, the only break in them being the doorless closet. There was a wobbly-looking chair beside a squat desk, and Patton smiled to see a stack of paper and a pack of colorful markers on the desk. It was the most homey detail he’d noticed so far—there was no art on the walls, no overstuffed bookshelves, no color anywhere. Perhaps he’d be able to brighten the place up.

The room was bare otherwise, just like the rest of the apartment. Patton took a moment to run his hand against the wall, trying to ignore how he was shaking. He was exhausted, and really really hungry, but he couldn’t tell anyone because—

No. He could tell Father. Nobody was going to hurt him here.

Patton looked to Father, only to see him biting his lip anxiously. He raised his eyebrows in a question, shrugging a bit, as if to say, _I’m sorry it isn’t more_.

Patton nodded, forcing himself to smile as brightly as possible. Father’s shoulders slumped into a more relaxed position. With a quick explanation of getting food, Father left the room, carefully placing the bag of clothes on the chair.

What Patton wanted to do was flop onto the bed and fall asleep, but he shook off the urge. It wouldn’t do to let his clothes get wrinkled. Father had never let him leave the house with messy clothing (something in his head pointed out that Father’s clothes were wrinkled and the top button of his shirt was undone today, the equivalent of him staying in bed all day).

The chair had a sticker on it, which Patton stared at. It had numbers scribbled on it—12.99—and said something about 'no refunds’. Patton assumed it was money; the Haven-dwellers had never really had money, as it wasn’t used in a society where everything was shared. Father had taught him about money, and so had Virgil, but it had never quite clicked. This was a price of some sort? Father had to pay that number for this chair? Hopefully it wasn’t too much.

Patton removed his few articles of clothing from the bag and hung them up with the handful of cheap clothing hangers in the closet. He pulled out Virgil’s hoodie last of all. If he closed his eyes, he just pretend that he was at home. There was a batch of cookies in the oven, bringing that cinnamon smell, and he was holding one of his own shirts. Father was in the kitchen, poring over one of his work projects. Any minute now, he would come to get Patton for dinner. After dinner, Father would pull his book of maps from behind the bookshelf and tell him tales of faraway lands, like Mongolia and Italy and Cincinnati. Home was warm, wasn’t scary, was safe.

And now, as he thought back, Patton remembered nights where Father would spend dinner glancing out the window, then would send Patton directly to bed. There were nights when Father would come home and practically drag Patton out the door to eat dinner at the communal dining hall, which they normally only did on Sundays. There were nights where Father wouldn’t make dinner at all, instead lock himself in his room and not come out until the next morning. There were nights where Father fidgeted with his tie and glasses, clearly upset by something.

Home had never been safe.

Patton opened his eyes, saw the blandness of his new room. The apartment was cramped, smaller even than their house in the Haven—and this place they shared with Remus. It smelled bad, even with the cinnamon scent, and was dark. The whole building made him uncomfortable, as if one of the sinners that the Prophets always warned against would jump out at him from around any corner.

This place—not home, certainly—was not safe.

Patton looked down at the black-and-purple hoodie in his hands. Despite how much his life had been controlled while trapped in the lab, how little of an effect he had on anything, how it was entirely possible to be dragged out at any moment and experimented on, the only place Patton could say was safe was that room. No, not the room—Virgil. Virgil was safe.

Patton sniffled, and realized belatedly that he was crying. He couldn’t let Father see—it might upset him, and after all he’d done for Patton, and how hopeful he was that Patton would like the apartment… .

Patton dried his eyes on his sleeve, then sat heavily on the bed and ran a hand over the bed sheet. It was softer than the ones at the Haven, but much thinner. One night of restlessness would probably put a hole in it. Patton resolved to not mention it. It was clear that Father was trying his best, and Patton didn’t want to make him feel bad for not having much money.

 _At least there aren’t bugs_ , Patton thought absently. Several years past, the barracks had become infested with cockroaches. It had taken months to exterminate them, and in the meantime the individuals living in the barracks had had to stay with those in houses. Patton didn’t really remember who had stayed with them, but it had been some woman that Father treated coldly.

Patton kicked his shoes off—which were very bright green, he’d stared at them for a good five minutes when Remus had brought them to his hospital room—and dug his socked feet into the carpet. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, he decided. He could walk through the apartment without shoes on. Shoes felt weird after months of not wearing them.

Patton’s door swung a little bit and he flinched violently. It couldn’t close, please he couldn’t let it close, it had to be open—

He dove for the door, only to look up and see Father holding the doorknob, still swaying the door back and forth. Right, that was how Father had notified him it was dinner in the past. He straightened up, trying to act like his heart wasn’t racing. Father’s eyes seemed to bore into his, but eventually Father gave him a tight smile and led the way to the kitchen.

Dinner was strange. Father called it a “microwave dinner”, a strange name for something that was too small to be an actual meal. Not to mention they were individual portions, and dinner was a family meal. It tasted great, though, and Patton wondered if he’d ever tire of food that wasn’t one of the five or six cycling meals that he ate while locked away with Virgil.

Father explained after dinner that they would be starting on Patton’s diet next week, which would apparently consist of a lot of liquidized foods and protein. Remus had called it a “high-high” diet, then laughed, but Patton wasn’t sure why it was funny. Remus wasn’t with them right now, Father had said something about Remus working late shifts.

There were no dishes to wash, since the dinners had come in disposable containers and the forks had been plastic. Father led him to the living room and showed him something Patton hadn’t noticed before—a television. They’d had a projector and screen at the Haven, which Virgil had said was similar. Father clicked the remote, and Patton was surprised to find something already playing. It wasn’t too exciting: he didn’t know what was going on, what the people onscreen were saying, what the story behind the program was. He quickly became bored.

Father kept looking over at him, a hopeful light in his eyes, a nervous smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. Patton forced a grin onto his own face, as wide as he could possibly make it, and focused on the television. He felt slightly guilty, but mostly relieved, when Father relaxed and sat down, gesturing for Patton to take a seat too.

As the sunlight beaming through the dusty window faded completely and Father clicked on a dim, yellowish lamp, Patton realized that he’d be giving a lot of fake smiles in the foreseeable future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all your support. Your comments and kudos mean so so much to me. Please take care of yourselves this week, pace yourself on school/work and get plenty of rest. Love you guys, see you next week~


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a busy week! I’ll let you know if I need to slow down updates!  
> So how about we visit Virgil, see what’s up with him?
> 
> cw: a n g s t, panic attack

Virgil couldn’t move. Roman had helped him into bed, then sat in the room for a while, trying to talk to him. When Virgil didn’t respond, he eventually left, stating that he would be back later.

His world was crashing down around him.

Could he believe that just yesterday, he’d smiled? He’d laughed? Now it was all background noise, mindless buzzing that felt totally inconsequential. There was only one thing that mattered now. Patton.

Therapy had been rough, and Virgil had expected it to be. What he hadn’t expected was to go over every meaningful interaction he had with Patton. The doctor had said she was “doing some tests”, so Virgil struggled to keep himself together as he talked about the one person he missed most in the world.

Then, she’d had the _audacity_ —she’d _dared to_ —

Virgil took a deep breath, blood boiling as he remembered that it was she who encouraged these breathing exercises. What if he didn’t want to calm down? He deserved to feel, remember, Patton needed him to—

Virgil’s legs started quaking, but he paid it no mind. He could not be wrong, admitting he was wrong would be abandoning Patton, he couldn’t do that, he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t gone, he’d always been there and always would.

His breathing quickened, coming in short, shallow breaths. His entire body was shaking, and Virgil nearly puked when he realized he could smell rubbing alcohol. He hadn’t had a flashback all week, he’d been doing so well!

As if summoned, there were gentle fingers on his wrist. _Calm_ , the fingers traced. _It’s okay. I’m here_.

“Patton,” Virgil croaked. “I—I knew it, you’re here, you’re here, I knew it—”

 _V breathe slow. Safe_.

Virgil got his breathing under control after a dozen rounds of exercises. His legs were still quivering, but he knew where he was. He was in his room, in Roman’s house, and he was going to be okay, and Patton—

Virgil choked.

His own hand gripped his wrist. His own hand was tracing soothing words.

“She was right,” Virgil whispered. His mind frantically grasped at straws, trying to explain what had just happened, as Virgil felt an overwhelming amount of despair.

_“Virgil, you talk a lot about Patton. In every instance you told me about, however, you never hear him. You can’t see him. Based on your time alone at the beginning of your imprisonment, it seems unlikely that they would suddenly decide to move you into a room with another person.”_

Virgil’s body had been completely out of energy, lax and unable to move, but now he was stiff as a board, locked in place. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

_“We haven’t been able to find out what that book was, based on your description of it.”_

No. No no no no no.

_“And I’ve seen you trace words onto yourself, in times when you need comfort. An interesting coping habit, one that might appear when a person is locked in a room with no outside stimulation.”_

Virgil sobbed, full on weeping as his body couldn’t move. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

And that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it?

_“Virgil, I think Patton may have been a hallucination that your brain fabricated in order to keep you comfort during the year that you were alone. I may be wrong, but everything you’ve told me about Patton points to it. Virgil, can you be absolutely certain that Patton was real?”_

He’d said yes, he’d said that there was no other option. He’d stormed out of the office five minutes later. He’d refused to talk to Roman in the car. He’d gone straight to his room and curled up on top of his blankets.

Patton had to be real, didn’t he? He couldn’t have made up a person so complex, so loving, so wonderful. And, more realistically, he couldn’t have created something so solid it had washed his clothes on days he felt too ill. Unless he’d imagined it. Anything was possible if it came from his head, wasn’t it?

One part of him was screaming, begging him to not abandon his best friend. The other part of him was mourning the loss of Patton. Virgil wasn’t sure what to do, torn this way. He had to be real. He was real—but was he? Where was the evidence?

The world was crumbling. Virgil choked on his tears, crying for Patton, crying for himself, crying for the loss he’d just suffered. Patton wasn’t real, Patton had to be real, Patton couldn’t be real.

Roman knocked on the door, asking cautiously if Virgil wanted to come down for dinner. Virgil pretended to not hear him, feigned sleep when Roman opened the door to look in. He buried his eyes in his pillow as he heard the door quietly shut, then Roman’s footsteps retreating. He was alone, isolated, and the one person he’d truly loved had probably never even existed.

What was Virgil supposed to do?

-

“Dude, what does it say?”

A long silence. Virgil groaned. Apparently he’d gotten an email as well as a letter, but Roman had insisted on reading it to him. Screen-readers were ‘too impersonal’ now. It wasn’t like he was going to get his information any other way.

“Virgil, I … I’m sorry.”

Virgil’s heart dropped. Roman sounded lost for words, his voice cracking in the middle of the sentence. There was no way whatever the letter said was good news.

“You … you got in!”

In a shot of adrenaline, Virgil smacked him. Probably on the arm.

“Ow! That was my face, you heathen!”

Oops.

“Roman! Don't—why—” Virgil could barely speak. He’d gotten in? He was certain he wouldn’t get in the first time, let alone twice . He got in!

“It’s my job, as your adopted older brother!” Roman said, the false hurt completely gone from his tone. “I have to bully you a bit! You should’ve seen the look on your face, it was priceless!”

Virgil frowned, his heart still racing. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it a bit. “I’m … older than you?”

“Doesn’t matter! I am, by proxy, older!”

Virgil snorted. “That makes no sense, dude.”

“Doesn’t have to!” Roman proclaimed. Virgil could practically see him doing some dramatic arm thing. “I’m the older brother, and therefore, I don’t have to make sense!”

Virgil tilted his head back in an approximation of rolling his eyes. According to Roman, it looked pretty creepy when he actually rolled his eyes, and it stung a little. Still, he would probably roll his eyes once he was around people who weren’t Roman’s parents.

He was really going back.

He sniffed, his nose burning. It had been so, so long. Had the campus changed? Would he be in a different dorm? Would he and Roman still share, since they were in different grades now?

He knew everything about their accessibility and whatever, about how they would accommodate disabled people. The school had actually reached out to him, informing him that he could finish his degree no problem, they had four or five visually impaired students already and could easily make it possible for him to continue his education. Virgil had been in contact with various foundations in order to work things out with his university, and he’d gotten a few scholarships—not to mention, the handful of scholarships he’d already had had gladly reinstated themselves. In fact, Virgil had pretty much already known that he’d be going back. There’d been very little room to doubt, as his therapist had told him several times.

This was real, though. Right there, in Roman’s hands, was proof. He was allowed back, and would see teachers and classmates he hadn’t seen in over a year. He was starting spring semester, which was still a few months away—Roman, despite his protests, had also put off starting his junior year until spring semester.

“Virge? Are … you okay?”

Virgil sniffed again, wiping his cheek to find a few tears there. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, with an attempt at a laugh. “I just … didn’t think this would ever happen, y'know?”

Roman also laughed, albeit much more nervously. “With the way admissions was basically begging you to come back? Of course it happened!”

Neither of them acknowledged what Virgil really meant.

“So, packing?” Roman said, after several seconds of silence. “I know it’s a while away, but is there anything specific you want to bring?”

With a pang, Virgil thought back to his hand-stitched hoodie. Hopefully it was bringing Patton as much comfort as it had always brought him. He’d had it for years, made it in Home Ec in high school. Until recently, he’d never been without it. It was bittersweet, in a way. Sure, it was gone, but it was with Patton. Like … like a piece of his heart would always be with Patton.

Virgil shook himself. _That’s stupid. And cheesy_ , he told himself. _Grow up. Move on. He doesn’t exist_.

There was an ASL club on campus, one that Virgil planned on becoming a part of. Roman wanted to as well, making up something about having always wanted to learn sign, but Virgil knew it was just protectiveness. Virgil was pretty sure Roman had been about to rearrange his entire schedule so that they could have the same classes, despite the fact that Roman was a year ahead and in a different program of study. After a long evening of Virgil sitting in his room anxiously while Roman talked to his parents in the living room downstairs, Roman had come to the conclusion that it was best for him to continue with his intended major. Virgil was relieved—he was a grown adult, after all. He didn’t really want someone trailing after him everywhere, insisting on helping him with every little thing.

Did he?

“Am I ready for this?” he wondered aloud. Roman gripped his shoulder tightly.

“I think so.” The words were soft, but no less powerful than Roman’s usual loud tone. “You’re so strong, Virgil. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Virgil couldn’t help but cringe. He knew someone much stronger. Whether that person was real or not was up for debate.

His most recent therapy sessions had involved a lot of tears, but Virgil had agreed to acknowledge that Patton might not exist. In turn, the doctor agreed to not make a formal assessment on Patton for the time being. It was still devastating, of course. It was still as if his entire world was falling apart. But Virgil was finding it easier to smile, more natural to joke with Roman.

He was healing.

Did he want to heal?

Yes, of course Virgil wanted to heal. He wanted to move on. He wanted to lead a normal life, without hurt and flashbacks and hallucinations.

But not without Patton.

There was a fork in the road approaching, Virgil was sure of it. He was going to have to choose between waiting for, hoping for Patton, and moving on. He wasn’t sure what would happen when he reached that point.

But it scared him that he would have to make that decision alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that tiny bit of fluff enough


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I keep saying this, but unless my life suddenly slows down soon, updates will be slowed. This one was so close to being late. I have a layout for the story, I just don’t have the spare time to write. I am about to lose a commitment, though, so maybe things will work out!
> 
> cw: arguing, panic attack, angst

“ _You don’t need a job._ ”

“ _Yes I do! I can’t just let you and Remus support me, I’m an adult!_ ”

“ _You’re still recovering. You don’t even know what a job would be like in this world._ ”

“ _Then let me find out!_ ”

“ _Patton, no. This is not up for debate any longer._ ”

Patton stood up suddenly, shoving his chair back with a loud _screeeech_. For a moment, his anger boiled, so near to the surface, as he contemplated walking out of the apartment and getting himself a job.

Instead, he shoved the feelings down and stormed into his room, slamming the door shut. How could Father be so—so—!

All he wanted was to feel like he was actually contributing something. Sure, he was still in three kinds of therapy, but Father couldn’t pay for that all himself, even with his two jobs. He couldn’t expect Remus to help, either—Remus was his own person with his own ambitions.

Patton picked up his pillow, only to throw it as hard as he could at the bed. He took a couple of deep breaths, then did it again. He was an adult, he could do anything Father or Remus could do, and he wanted to help! He wanted to see the Outside, interact with people from Out, learn what life was like here. He hadn’t gone anywhere yet except his therapy appointments, which were all in the same cluster of buildings, so it wasn’t like he was being exposed to a wide variety of stimuli.

Something was off, but Patton shook the feeling away. He was too mad to try and figure it out. Father didn’t have much money at all, they were skating by on very little and Patton could help with that! He could help his family stay safe and alive, and here, with him.

Patton had felt helpless his whole life. There was always something, someone, to be afraid of. There was always something, someone, to hold him in place. He was always trapped. He’d thought, for months, that getting out would mean a sunny life full of smiles, a life with love and happiness.

This wasn’t happiness. This wasn’t sunshine, and certainly not smiles. This was being locked away, only leaving to see doctors who tried to ‘fix’ him, only to—

Patton fell to his knees, clutching his head as he tried to shut the memories out. There was panic rising in his chest, dousing the anger like cold water with fire, and he didn’t know why. Where was Virgil, why wasn’t he here? Where was his jacket—there, on the desk. So where was Virgil? Why wasn’t he here, where was Father, please, not again, _please_ —

The door.

The door was closed, and Patton hadn’t closed it, had he? Someone shut him in. Someone had shut him in, and they weren’t going to let him out. No, not okay, not at all okay. There was no way for him to tell someone to let him out, he couldn’t ask for help!

Why wouldn’t Father let him learn to talk?

Patton crawled over to the door, shaking fearfully as he reached up for the doorknob. Part of him was holding him back, insisting that if he didn’t know that the door was locked then it couldn’t be locked. Instead of giving in to that, he turned the handle, and—

It opened, with just a little bit of resistance of dragging along the carpet, and Patton fell over in relief. He was safe, he was at home with Father, he wasn’t confined to a room. He noticed that his face was hot, and reached up to find tears.

Patton felt a little embarrassed, now that he realized that nothing had been wrong. He’d just been freaking out over nothing. Probably something he’d have to talk about with one of his therapists.

He got to his feet, his legs shaking a bit, which reminded him suddenly of Virgil. Patton felt a pang as he thought of his lost love. Remus had said that Virgil had gotten out for certain, but he didn’t know anything else. He couldn’t believe it—they both finally got freedom, escaped to the same place, yet their paths hadn’t crossed. They’d been separated, before they even got to see each other.

The house vibrated, and Patton peered out his door to see Remus kicking his shoes off in front of the front door. He was saying something to Father, his mouth moving at lightning speed.

Patton withdrew into his room, taking a moment to pull on Virgil’s jacket before falling back onto his bed. His heart was still thumping wildly, adrenaline surging through him. Everything was fine, though. Not good, necessarily. But fine.

-

Remus flopped onto the couch beside Logan, letting a drawn-out sigh hiss out of him. Logan watched him impassively, though there was a crease between his brows, and he didn’t look all that present.

“You good, Lolo?” Remus asked. He scratched his mustache absently, not at all missing Logan’s quick glance to Patton’s room.

The kid was cool, if a bit jumpy. He and Logan had been butting heads a bit lately, and today must have been the day of another angry hands match. Remus wasn’t really able to keep up, but Logan had filled him in—Patton wanted a job, and to learn how to read lips and talk. Like that one lady, but without the blind part or whatever.

Remus was on Patton’s side, sort of—the kid needed out, and that was fair. He’d needed out to, which was why he got a job at the gas station thirty minutes out. Gave him time to drive, think. Laugh at the music on the radio. Pretend he was collecting a string of coins on the road. Fun stuff, free stuff. Pat pretty clearly needed some of that, and Logan was definitely motherhenning.

On the other hand, though, the three were barely keeping afloat. After payments for Patton’s therapy (which they had financial aid for, too), there was only just enough to cover bills and food and whatall. They hadn’t even been able to buy Pat more clothes, he was just re-wearing the same two or three outfits over and over. Which played into why he wanted a job—another person with a job meant more money, but even that wouldn’t be enough money to cover lipreading lessons, let alone speaking lessons.

Who would hire a deaf kid, anyway?

 _Deaf young adult_ , Remus reminded himself. Patton was only a handful of years younger than him. He wasn’t a kid, and he probably didn’t want to be called a kid.

Suddenly, Remus realized that Logan was talking. He really needed to stop getting lost in thought.

“I can’t let that happen,” Logan was saying. “Not again.”

Ah, they’d reached the part of the day where Logan talked about how guilty he felt. Lovely to tune in to!

“Lo, I get it. You’ve given me this spiel like eight million times already,” Remus said. “You love Patty, blah blah your fault, blah blah blah kidnapping, not safe blah blah. Come up with new material.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but he seemed to have broken out of his self-deprecating cycle, so Remus had succeeded.

“Why don’t we talk to the school district?” Remus continued. “They’ve gotta have some deaf kids, and Pat could be a translator or something, I don’t know.” He’d been thinking about it for a few days now. If there was anyone who needed a translator full-time, it was a school. He’d thought about other places—a church (nope bad memories probably), the post office (too many people), a motel (too shifty). Not to mention, all the places wouldn’t need him regularly. The school seemed like the best bet. Logan, however, shook his head without even considering it.

“No, he doesn’t know the first thing about a school.”  
Remus snapped his fingers. “Perfect place to learn! Good thinking!”

“That is not what I mean. I don’t feel comfortable putting him in a situation where he would have to regularly deal with normal people.” Logan adjusted his glasses, his hand running up from there to trail through his hair. “He’s not ready. It isn’t safe for him until we can adjust his therapy schedule to include sensitivity training. It will take him years to be able to get a job, according to the timeline I’ve drawn up. Not to mention, in order to get a decent, respectable job, he must undertake a college education at a reputable university.”

That was completely wrong, and ruled out trade schools and apprenticeships. It also stung, pretty badly. Logan knew full well that Remus hadn’t been to college. Remus tried to not let the hurt show on his face as he stopped listening to Logan’s tirade.

He was wrong. Little Patty-Cake could totally survive in the real world. But how to prove it to him?

-

Patton was reading, sprawled out on his bed, several days after the fight when he saw his door move slightly out of the corner of his eye. He sat up to see Remus waving at him. He sent a casual wave back, before returning to his book. He was learning a lot—the book’s main characters all worshiped differently. He hadn’t even known that there was more than one religion.

His bed dipped, which meant that Remus had come in and sat on his bed. Patton took his time finishing his page. Eventually, Remus waved in his face.

“ _That’s rude, you know,_ ” Patton signed, finally placing a bookmark in the book and closing it. “ _What do you need?_ ”

Remus took a moment, repeating Patton’s sentences in miniature as he worked his way through it. Then he bounced a little bit, smiled, and pulled something out of the tote bag on his shoulder that Patton hadn’t noticed until now.

A book.

Another one?

Patton didn’t want to complain, but he had so many books already. Father was always going to the library in between shifts, bringing a new thing to read. He had six or seven to catch up on still, he didn’t need another. And he was getting a little bored of reading.

Remus raised his eyebrows expectantly, holding it out, gesturing for Patton to take it. He did, watching Remus’s excited eyes for a moment before turning his attention to the title.

 _Lip-Reading Principles And Practice: A Hand-book for Teacher and for Self-Instruction_.

No.

Really?

Patton smiled, huge, hope building in his chest. Remus grinned toothily, and rereading the title was all it took for Patton to be launching into Remus’s chest with a hug.

He was really going to learn! He could really do this! He released the laughing Remus to run his hands across the lightly damaged cover reverently, then hugged Remus again.

He couldn’t wait to get started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs??? Is that fluff??


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! It’s good to be back! The break was much needed, but I’ve really missed interacting with y’all. Have a relatively calm chapter!
> 
> cw: food

Weeks passed, and Patton realized that lip-reading was harder than he thought it would be. Patton practiced every single day, studying the diagrams in the book and taking down notes on everything. Remus had at first practiced with him by saying a phrase and having Patton guess, but they had quickly realized that it was too advanced at this stage. Now, Remus held up a notecard with a phrase or word and said it. After going through five different different notecards, Remus would start over again without displaying the notecards. This helped Patton grasp it much quicker, and he had advanced to picking up several words that his therapists spoke in everyday conversation.

Sometimes, when he felt really excited, Patton would mimic the diagrams in the mirror, making the mouth movements for his own name, Remus’s name, and Virgil’s name. He already knew what his own name looked like, he found—he’d been unknowingly able to recognize it for years.

Patton always had the same translator at his doctor and therapy appointments, so he asked her a few questions about lip-reading and speaking. The woman was able to answer, usually, but there was rarely any time to get into a conversation. The woman did recommend some online resources and teachers for learning to speak, which Patton passed along to Remus. Patton didn’t really understand the whole online thing yet. Virgil had tried to explain it several times, but it didn’t make a lot of sense. Where did all of the information come from? Who put it there, ready for everyone to use? How was it usable?

Patton had learned how to use the internet in basic terms. He knew how to look for something in specific on Google, and he knew that Youtube was a thing because Remus liked showing him videos from it. Youtube had captions, unlike the television. Patton had found himself watching a lot of comedy videos, sometimes writing down the best jokes from them. He had a cheap blue notebook that he wrote the jokes and his notes in, and he kept it under his bed, like he used to do with his journal back ho—back at the cult.

Patton had researched the cult briefly on the internet, but had quickly become upset at seeing his own face on the cover of one of the articles that popped up. He’d closed it after seeing that several of the scientists, as well as the two prophets, were facing legal charges. That was all he’d needed to know.

Well, not really all. He’d been looking for any mention of Virgil. The one he’d read had mentioned him briefly, if not by name, and was now written in Patton’s notebook: _Investigations began after the appearance of two young men, both of whom required immediate medical care_.

One was Remus. The other had to be Virgil. That meant Virgil was alive somewhere. Patton wondered if Virgil too was reading the articles, seeing that Patton was out, wondering how to find him.

Gosh, Patton missed him.

Right now, Patton was following along with a video on tongue movements for forming different letters. He wasn’t sure that he was getting the S quite right, he’d have to ask Remus later. He took a few more notes on how to do it, then folded his notebook closed and took Father’s laptop off incognito. Remus had taught him how to turn on and off incognito mode with a little wink, and now Patton used it almost every time he was on the laptop, which was only while Father was at his second job. For some reason, Patton felt that he wouldn’t be allowed to do this.

He was just in time out of Father’s room for Remus to get home from work, shooting him a fingergun (Virgil used to do those all the time) before throwing himself onto the couch. Patton longed to shake his shoulder, ask him for help practicing, but Remus was always tired right after work. Patton wasn’t sure what he did, only that he was trying to find something else that paid better, so sometimes he would be out for hours after he was supposed to be home looking for a new job.

Patton slid into his room, flicking the light switch to turn it off. He rarely sat in his room with the light on, it made him uncomfortable. It almost felt as though someone was watching, though he knew that it was just a response developed from a traumatic situation, as his therapist had told him.

He’d barely been in his room for thirty seconds when Remus wandered in. He gestured to his mouth, and Patton watched carefully as he spoke.

“You - - - - to eat pr - - - - -.”

“ _One more time?_ ” Patton signed. Remus repeated himself, but Patton still didn’t pick it all up, so he asked Remus to sign it.

“ _You need to eat protein,_ ” Remus signed slowly. “ _Diet time._ ”

Patton wasn’t particularly hungry, but a part of regaining his body mass and retraining his body to eat normally was eating six or seven small, ‘enriching’ meals instead of three big ones. Remus was right, Patton realized as he checked the clock—it was time for his protein supplement, a meal usually made up of beef jerky and peanuts. Yay.

-

The weeks turned into months, and Remus decided that it was time for Patton to get some real world practice. Sure, he’d been going to therapy and all, but those folks rarely talked to him. It was time to play to Logan’s weaknesses.

He brought it up over dinner one night, when Patton had already gone to bed. It rubbed him the wrong way that Logan sent him to bed instead of letting him stay up and talk to his pops, who had only been home for ten minutes. Sure, Pat had a schedule or whatever, and he had to follow it to stay healthy, but it should be his own decision. Still, there was nothing Remus could do about it. Except maybe this.

“So, when’s your next day off?”

Logan shrugged. “I believe I have the morning of next Wednesday off, but that’s all for next week. Why?”

Remus twirled his fork through the cheap macaroni and cheese, pretending to not be too interested in the outcome. “Just thinkin’. Pat’s almost out of books again, we should probably make a trip to the library.”

Logan smiled softly at the suggestion—or maybe at Patton’s name. There was no telling with the man.

“And his therapist’s been saying he needs to go to a new place for enrichment or something like that. Wouldn't—”

Logan’s face had already shuttered. “Absolutely out of the question. I cannot—”

“Lo, he really wants to,” Remus pleaded, letting his fork fall to the table. “He’s gotta get out of this house. And what better place than a quiet library, where it’s easy to watch him and sometimes there’s a cop hanging out?”

“Remus, I—I can’t,” Logan said, his face still stone, but now his eyes had grown sad. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow Patton to be in an unsafe environment. If I lost him again… .”

“You won’t,” Remus cajoled. “I’ll come too, watch him be safe. Just imagine how much he’ll love it! Father-son bonding and all that crap!”

Logan looked down at his plate, clearly thinking deeply. Remus could almost see him weighing the options in his head. Internally, his heart rabbited, but externally Remus was the picture of calm. Hopefully. Maybe. He was probably not, but he could dream.

“I’ll consider it,” Logan said eventually. “You are correct in assuming that the library is a place I would very much like to share with him. Tomorrow after tutoring Andy I will stop at the library and inquire after safety precautions. By Monday, I will have my decision.”

Remus leaned back, picking his fork up again. That was as close as he was going to get Logan tonight. If he continued to push it, Logan would completely shut down the conversation and then there’d be no chance of getting Pat out of the apartment.

They’d been watching a stupid black-and-white movie a week or three ago, and one of the characters had said a line that Patton had obviously related to. Remus had looked over to see tears brimming after the old man on screen said, _“I thought I was supposed to be getting fresh air. So far, I’ve been in a train and a room, and a car and a room, and a room and a room.”_

That probably really sucked for Patton. Remus went stir-crazy in this tiny apartment, and he was able to leave whenever he wanted. Patton left three times a week, and went straight to his appointments and then straight home. One of his doctors had actually just switched over to doing virtual appointments, so Pat was only leaving twice a week now. Kid had to be going insane.

-

Patton felt a bit like he was going insane.

He marked a tally in his notebook every day, one for each day that he had been out without Virgil. It sort of was a continuation of his tallies in the cell, but he couldn’t remember where he had left off, so he had just started anew.

He had just filled a second page of tally marks. It had been months since he’d escaped, even longer since he’d seen Virgil. Every time Remus tried to tell him that everything was going to be okay, or Father told him that everything was okay, Patton felt anger simmer in his stomach. It was not okay, it couldn’t be okay, it would never be okay without Virgil. Even if he had to be trapped in this horrible apartment for years, it would be wonderful with Virgil by his side.

Every day, he followed the same schedule. Therapy exercises, meals at precise times, lip-reading studies, regular reading, bed at ten PM. It was terrible.

He couldn’t help but feel excited, though. He was leaving, at least for a little bit! Father had asked him if he wanted to go to the library with him tomorrow, and Patton had thought his heart was going to drop out of his chest. Both Father and Virgil had told him about libraries, and how beautiful they were, and how many books were always there.

Patton was finally going to a new place, and it was the library. All of the anger he’d been feeling over the past weeks had washed away, replaced only with anticipation. Even with Father there, this had to be the best thing to happen in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm not usually particularly personal here, but I just got accepted to my dream school!
> 
> Unrelated, you should go watch Romeo es Julia. It's in Hungarian, but the whole show is available on youtube with English subtitles! I recommend watching The Duel (Hungarian) specifically.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey... updates may be delayed! A member of my household just tested positive for Covid-19. I am symptomatic and getting tested later this week. My whole house is quarantined and we're basically re-experiencing all the trauma from March lol (we fluctuate between finding everything hysterically funny and being out of our minds with fear).
> 
> So yeah, with that in mind, this fic could pause. I really don't want it to, especially with where I am in the story, but if there isn't a chapter next week that is why. Enjoy this chapter!
> 
> cw: b a d parenting, mentions of trauma

Remus chewed on the end of his pen. _Riley, Alberts, Robertson, Robinson, Richards, Allison, Reese, Arlowe …_ something that started with an ‘A’ or an 'R’. But what? Why couldn’t he remember his own last name?

Logan was always saying something about brainwashing and trauma, but Logan knew his own last name! Stupid Logan Sanders and his calm explanations for everything in Remus’s life. He didn’t want someone telling him how he felt or why, he wanted to move on. He wanted to figure himself out for himself. He wanted out.

The trip to the library a couple weeks ago had been even worse than expected. Logan hadn’t even let go of Patton, despite how uncomfy the kid looked. It had to suck to be twenty-something and have your dad drag you around by the shoulders everywhere you go.

Patton had only wanted one book, for some reason. There were so many books in that building, and Logan had pulled like a hundred from the shelves just to show him. He’d signed so quickly about the book that Remus couldn’t keep up, but Logan had frowned and talked to the librarian for a few minutes, before eventually presenting Patton with a book—which was probably the one he’d been asking for. His face looked weird after receiving it, happy, but also seriously depressed. It looked pretty old, Remus had no idea why he’d wanted that book.

 _Rivers, Albright, Abbott, Ramsey, Russell, Reed, Rowell, Austen… ._ Nothing. Not even a smidge of anything. Well, if he couldn’t remember his last name, what about the name of where he used to live?

The city came to him almost instantly.

Sharon.

Remus snorted. That was a stupid name for a city. Actually, he could remember joking about it with his brother, about how their mom shared it.

Energy flooded to his limbs with a suddenness, and when the bell rang from the door opening beside him he literally fell out of his seat.

“W-welcome to Chevron,” he said, straightening up. The customer nodded barely at him, making a beeline for the refrigerators in the back. Remus quickly wrote on the scrap of paper he’d been doodling circles onto so far: 'sharon – town and ma’.

Now he just had to figure out which state sounded the most familiar, and if Sharon was a city there. He’d spent days just driving around town with friends, he probably still knew his way around.

The customer paid for a few jugs of Gatorade, then left, dust puffing up behind his truck as he pulled out of the parking lot. Remus sat back down, scratching his mustache with his pen. He could google the city when he got home, then… .

Then he’d figure out how to tell Patton and Logan he was leaving.

-

Patton sighed, flipping through the first half of the book again. _Summer_ , it was called. This copy looked almost identical to the other one. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers along the slightly indented title, like Virgil would. He’d had it for almost two months now, asking Father to renew the book instead of allowing it to be returned. He really wanted to finish it, after all.

Not that he could ever get himself to read past around the middle.

Patton’s notebook was almost full now, but he couldn’t ask Remus for another. Not after how much Remus was already doing for him. The pages were filled with studying mouth movements, bad jokes, and journal entries that mostly were about Virgil and what they’d do when they were together again. In tiny, cramped handwriting was a detailed recollection of everything Patton could remember that Virgil told him about where he lived—which wasn’t much. It was hard to hold on to any memories from there. His therapist said it had to do with trauma memories being stored incorrectly, and said he might have flashbacks about it. So far, none had happened, but sometimes he wished one would—just so he could see Virgil again.

He wasn’t good at drawing, but here and there in his notebook were vague sketches of Virgil. Some days, Patton woke up not sure what he looked like. He couldn’t forget him. Patton would never forgive himself if he forgot the lovely mistiness of Virgil’s eyes, the way his hair fell into his mouth and made him sputter, the stark paleness of his face against his black hoodie… .

Patton wrapped the hoodie around himself. He needed to think about something else, or else he’d start crying again. Crying made his head and ears hurt, which his doctor said would probably always be the case. So he mostly did his best to not cry, ever.

Patton cast his mind around for something new to think about, and landed on the trip to the library several weeks ago. The trip wasn’t … optimal?

No. The trip sucked.

Father wouldn’t let go of him, which just made him feel like a toddler having to be guided around. It was bright, and had a lot of people, and was a little startling, but Patton was sure he could have handled it. Why didn’t Father trust him?

It wasn’t just that. Father made him go to bed at a specific time every night, wouldn’t let him have any say in what he ate, wouldn’t even let him pick what to watch on the TV. It was … it was stupid! It was awful, it was embarrassing, it was demeaning! It made Patton feel worthless, like he wasn’t even a proper member of society! He wasn’t a boy anymore, he had even had a job back at the Haven, he wasn’t helpless!

Maybe soon, with all that he’d been learning, he could prove to Father that he was capable. And if Father wouldn’t believe him, well … Patton would have to make him.

Again, that anger was right at the surface, ready to spill out into the air. At least he had the book.

-

Somehow, Logan had let Remus convince him that he didn’t need to go to every therapy appointment with Patton, so Logan was at home alone. For the first time in months. He was exhausted, but he did not have time to sleep.

Patton was hiding something. Logan was undeniably certain of it. And when Patton hid something, he hid it under his bed.

Logan didn’t get up immediately. This was a matter of privacy, after all. He understood that he was likely being a little too restricting with his son, but who could blame him? He’d almost lost him. So if Patton was hiding something, it was likely best to know what it was. Patton didn’t seem to realize the amount of danger he was in. It wasn’t his fault, he was just a child. Children weren’t supposed to worry about this sort of thing, it was their parents’ jobs to care for them. So, naturally, he had to make sure that whatever Patton was hiding wasn’t going to bring harm in some way. If it was, he could gently confront him about it, and explain why it was not acceptable.

With that plan in mind, Logan stood from his desk and made his way to Patton’s room. His door was always open, even when he was inside—it made sense, all things considered.

The room still had almost precisely the same setup as Logan had put together, down to the making of the bed. He’d told Patton that he was allowed to customize his room and ask for personal items, but so far he had done neither of those things. The only difference was that the small closet now had a few more pieces of clothing in it.

Logan bent to his hands and knees beside the bed and peered beneath. Sure enough, there were items underneath the boy’s bed: a battered blue notebook, the singular book that he had wanted from the library last month, the jacket that had belonged to the other other prisoner. Logan reached for the notebook, grunting when his back popped.

He pulled himself onto Patton’s bed to open it. It was confusing, at first, some jokes in his son’s handwriting, rather poor sketches of an unfamiliar face. Then… .

Oh.

That—that was bad.

Logan took a few deep breaths, then flipped another page, then another. More of the same. This wasn’t good. This was not good at all.

These diagrams and instructions, clearly for lip-reading? These would get Patton taken away from him. These would hurt him. These would make Patton want to leave the safety of home.

These were dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #GetLoganTherapy2k20


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been waiting for this one :)
> 
> cw: bad parenting, arguing, intense anger

“Hey, Lo? Do you have a minute?”

Logan’s eyes followed Patton as he went directly to his room, barely flashing a ‘hello’ at him. Then he returned his attention to a strangely nervous Remus. “Of course. What do you need to discuss?”

He almost invited Remus to sit on the couch with him, but he knew the man would decline. Instead, he stood, watching Remus hop from one foot to the other.

“Well,” Remus began after a moment’s hesitation, “this could sorta come as a surprise. But … I found them.” A small smile appeared on his face, immediately washed out by apprehension.

Logan smiled gently. “I would guess that by ‘them’, you mean your family. In that case, congratulations.” He stuck his hand out, and after a moment, Remus shook it. “I assume that is why all of your possessions have gone from being strewn about the living room to being contained in a trash bag?”

Remus’s teeth flashed in another quick smile as he nodded. “Yeah. Haven’t really been subtle, huh?”

Logan had been planning for this eventuality for quite some time, and had not been at all taken by surprise. Instead, he dropped the car key that Remus had just given him after returning home back into Remus’s hand. “I want it back, of course, preferably before the end of the month.”

Remus looked down at the keys, then to Logan, then back at his hand. Logan chuckled.

“Naw, I—how will you get to work?”

“I’ve already made arrangements, don’t worry about me.” And he had. One of his jobs was within walking distance, and a coworker had offered to carpool for his other job. He nodded at Remus. “I take it you’ve already quit?”

Remus ran a hand along his slack jaw, still staring at the key in his hand. “Y-yeah. Gave ‘em my letter two weeks ago. You sure?” he asked, almost as an afterthought.

“Of course I am,” Logan waved him off. “You need it more than I do right now. Find them.”

Remus laughed, almost shrill. “Thanks, thank you … so much, Lo. Not just for this. For everything.”

Logan inclined his head. “Thank you, too. For bringing my son back to me. Consider us, er, even,” he said. “Will you be leaving immediately?”

Remus didn’t say anything for half a minute, before nodding. “No reason not to, huh? Guess I’ll just . . . say bye to Pat and be on my way.”

Logan sat back down, content to let Remus pack his things into the car and exchange a private farewell with Patton. Thinking of Patton, Logan shifted uncomfortably. He could wait until Remus left to confront his son. Unfortunately, Patton may already have an idea of what was to come. If he had sought out his notebook, it would have not been found under his bed.

Finally, Remus was out the door, with a little wave and a spring in his step. It was time to speak to Patton.

-

Patton rubbed his face tiredly as he followed Father to the cramped kitchen. He really didn’t know what this was about, but he could guess. Now that Remus was leaving, he didn’t see how it was possible to continue with therapy. His weekly appointments would probably become monthly, then he would only still be in contact with the physical therapist in order to continue getting back to full strength. Today, for instance: it was around midday, and he had only had a therapy appointment and he was already exhausted. He’d been about to take a nap when Remus came to say goodbye.

Remus had promised to video chat with him, but Patton didn’t know how much help that would be with voice lessons. Up until now, he’d frequently been able to rest his hand on Remus’s throat and mouth to really understand how it was supposed to feel when he spoke. And with Father’s laptop not having a very good camera, it wasn’t very likely that he would be able to continue speaking lessons at all.

Not that he wasn’t happy for Remus! Patton was as excited as he could be that Remus was going to find his real family. He understood that. And he was sad that Remus was leaving, but not because it meant he was going to be stuck in this terrible apartment for even longer. He was going to miss him as a friend. He was going to miss teaching him sign, laughing at his jokes, his big smile when Patton managed to say a word correctly.

Losing Remus was losing his only friend. He’d already lost his love. Now it was just him and Father, in this tiny house that he could never leave. It was worse than the Haven, because at least then he could go outside. Now he was stuck in this acrid-smelling, too-small apartment. And without his best friend.

“ _Patton, I need to speak with you,_ ” Father signed. Patton resisted throwing out something snarky and kept his hands by his sides.

“ _Earlier today, I was cleaning, and I happened to find this._ ” From the silverware drawer, Father pulled–

Oh no. Oh no. His notebook.

Patton tried not to let his sudden panic show in his face, but could feel his hands fidgeting. He shoved them in the pockets of Virgil’s jacket. This was fine. There was nothing wrong with learning to talk, or writing jokes. Maybe he’d been a bit frustrated in some of his journal entries, but that was normal. Everyone got frustrated sometimes. Father would understand.

“ _Son, I was not happy with what I found,_ ” Father told him, and Patton’s heart sank. He fell into a chair, knowing exactly what it was. Sure, there was nothing wrong with learning to speak. For everyone else.

“ _You seem to have been teaching yourself how to speak audibly,_ ” Father continued. “ _While I admire the effort and your willingness to learn, I have to tell you how disappointed I am. Learning something that could endanger you and this family behind my back? That is not something I will tolerate._ ”

“ _What’s wrong with it?_ ” Patton asked cautiously. This was going a little better than he’d thought it would—Father hadn’t outright told him to stop yet.

“ _What is wrong is it is dangerous. Learning to speak and lip-read may seem appealing, but once others discover your talents, they will want to take you away. I am putting a stop to it right now._ ”

There it was. Patton felt tears well up in his eyes, but he wasn’t sad. He was angry. The fire that had been simmering in the bottom of his belly rose to his throat, and with stilted movements, he asked, “ _Who do you think is going to take me away?_ ”

Father was losing his composure as well. He tugged at his own hair for a moment, hands spasming, before answering, “ _Anyone. They’ll take you away from me, and study you, or make you work, or hurt you. They won’t let you see the light of day ever again. I can’t let that happen! Not again!_ ”

“ _Well, it kind of feels like you already did._ ” Patton’s hands moved furiously. Did he really want to say this? “ _I don’t know if you noticed, but you’re doing the exact same thing that they did._ ”

“ _No, I’m not._ ” Father reached out, but pulled himself back at the last moment. “ _I-I’m keeping you safe. You’re only a child._ ”

“ _Dad, I’m twenty-two!_ ” The anger burst over the surface. Patton shoved back from the table and stood, chest heaving with adrenaline. The leg of the chair scraped against his calf as it fell to the floor. “ _I’m an adult! I finally got out of that godforsaken cult, and all you do is keep me trapped in this horrible apartment! I know what danger is, I lived through it. I nearly died in that place, starving to death as nobody opened the door. Well guess what? I’m starving again. I’m starving for sunlight, for open space, for the love of my life!_ ”

“ _Patton—_ ”

“ _I’m not finished!_ ” Patton kicked the overturned chair, then the table leg, unable to feel the pain it surely brought. “ _You’re actually worse than them! You know why?_ ”

Logan was crying, a single tear rolling down his cheek. The pain in his eyes only served to fuel Patton’s rant.

“ _Because Virgil’s out here!_ ” Logan flinched, and Patton kicked the wall, leaving a dent. “ _Virgil’s out, somewhere, and I could find him, but you won’t let me out! We don’t have any money, but you won’t let me work! There’s nothing to do, but all you do is bring me more and more books that I don’t want! And you know what? I’m done!_ ”

“ _Son, please—_ ”

“ _No. I almost died back there. So you got me out. I’m dying here, so I’m getting myself out._ ”

Patton kicked the wall one last time, then picked up his notebook from the table, resisting the urge to throw it at Logan.

“ _Wait!_ ”

He looked at his father, who was pressed against the cabinets. He was shaking, eyes wide with hurt and fear. Hastily, he signed, “ _Where are you going?_ ”

“Anywhere is better than here.” By the look on Logan’s face, that sentence had come out close enough. He nodded curtly at his father, then stalked out of the kitchen, then out of the apartment, only pausing to grab his thin winter coat.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Logan fell to his knees.

-

Remus swung the door shut and threw the scraper to the floor of the car, feeling far too tired for not even having left yet. It didn’t normally get too cold around here, especially not now that it was March, but apparently a cold front had moved in overnight or something and it had been lightly snowing all day. He hadn’t thought it was enough to freeze the windshield–he’d just barely gotten back from taking Patton to therapy, after all—yet here he was, switching on the defrost and scraping off the windows.

He was just about ready to pull out, even had his hand on the gear, when the side door of the apartment complex burst open.

Patton came hurrying out, walking so quickly that Remus would think he was trying to escape a crab that kept snipping at his heels. The kid didn’t even give him a second glance as he walked in front of the car. Remus’s jaw dropped as his head turned to follow him—across the sidewalk, into the parking lot, then right up beside the car.

Patton yanked open the passenger side door with surprising strength, then threw himself into the seat and slammed it behind him. His face was red and wet, Remus noticed, as he roughly drew his sleeve across his face. Then Patton turned to him.

“ _I’m going with you,_ ” he signed, his movements quick and short. Remus picked his jaw up off the floor and quirked an eyebrow.

“And daddy’s okay with that?” he asked aloud, signing along. Patton rolled his eyes and turned away.

“No.”

Remus shrugged. “Ooookay then!” He made to get out of the car, but Patton grabbed his arm.

“ _Please—don’t tell him. He’ll make me stay._ ”

Remus looked up at the building, then back at Patton. He looked like he’d really gone through it, poor kid. And he’d been trying to tell Logan for months that he needed to loosen up, let Patton explore the Outside a bit.

“ _First place with a phone we hit out of town, I’m calling him,_ ” Remus compromised. Patton nodded, pulling the zippered edges of his two jackets closer around him. Remus hadn’t noticed previously, but now he saw the blue notebook laying on his lap. He reached over and tapped it lightly. “ _Get some practice in._ ”

Patton nodded, awkwardly pulling his seatbelt one-handed while he flipped it open with the other hand. Remus gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, then shifted the gear.

He was on his way home. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he muttered something that Patton, his nose already buried in his notebook, had no way of seeing.

“Hope you like Sharon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially the longest fic I've ever written! Here's to many more!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! Road. Trip.
> 
> cw: reckless driving, like very reckless driving, slight car accident, nobody gets hurt don’t worry, flashbacks

“Wooo! Road trip … starring Remus and Patton! All alone on the road!” Remus sang, ignoring the clicking that came from behind the radio. They’d spent the past three days driving through mountains and only got lost twice, which Remus counted as a win. Now the terrain was flat, and the roads were dusty, and there were barren fields all around and occasionally a couple of cows. Whenever they passed a herd, Remus pointed them out and Patton sat up straighter to catch a glimpse.

Right now, the man was slouched, staring out his window, knees pulled up to his chest. In the glances that Remus threw his way, he saw the faraway look on his face, the exhaustion in the lines on his forehead. He looked a lot like his old dad like that.

True to his word, Remus had called Logan about thirty minutes out. The man had been crying, making Remus insanely uncomfortable. Had he been crying the whole time? Probably. Remus didn’t tell Patton that.

Logan had insisted that they go home right away, but Remus couldn’t do that. Patton didn’t want to, and Patton was a whole adult. He could make his own decisions. It had been Remus’s own parents acting something like this that made him leave, after all. He wasn’t about to abandon Pat in such a dark mental place as he’d been in for the last few months.

So Remus had said no, very seriously and without a laugh. Logan had just cried harder. The rest of the call pretty much consisted of Remus promising to keep Patton safe (like he couldn’t keep himself safe?) before the time ran out on the payphone. They didn’t even say goodbye.

Remus had very few quarters, but he’d used them to call Lo at least once a day. Patton always stood awkwardly at his side, rocking back and forth on his heels and watching with interest the clouds of vapor that came from their mouths. If it hadn’t snowed back home, Remus would have guessed he’d never been in the cold before—and he was probably close to right, considering how Pat had lived his whole life out in the middle of the desert. Now, high in the mountains, there was more cold than Patton had ever experienced, and his two jackets weren’t doing much to keep it out.

They barely had enough money for gas to get to Sharon, if Remus’s calculations were correct (they probably were, math had been the only subject he ever had an A in), so he couldn’t splurge on some gloves for the man, despite how often he saw him blowing on his chapped hands and rubbing them together. Instead, Remus just turned the heat up a bit and hoped that they would get through the cold soon.

They did, luckily, but not until they had spent several cold nights huddled together in the backseat of the car. It was warmer now, probably around fifty degrees Fahrenheit, pretty average weather for March. They’d only passed through maybe half a town so far, but as far as he could remember that was pretty normal for Nebraska. They’d seen like three when they crossed the state border the night before, anyway.

Remus tapped Patton on the shoulder, waiting for his to look up before gesturing at the glove compartment. “Get out the map, Will ya?”

Patton definitely didn’t catch any of that, but he knew what Remus wanted. He clicked open the glove compartment, rifled through it for a few seconds, then pulled out the correct map.

Patton unfolded the map and turned it this way and that, eventually finding the section that they were on. He traced his finger along the road, then tapped on a particular spot. Remus craned his neck over to see it, keeping one eye on the road.

“Riiiiiight on track. Should be there when we’re there!” Remus laughed at himself, then started watching the road signs for a gas station. The car needed filling up, and Patton could probably use something to eat. He had a weird food schedule.

After that, they’d probably be driving until noon, when they’d stop for more food, more gas that evening, dinner, then Remus would start keeping an eye out for a truck stop to park in and hunker down for the night. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if they didn’t get a good place to stop tonight–while in the mountains, he’d made sure to find a place every single night, but now the roads were flat and straight and long and there was rarely another car.

Thinking of… .

Remus pulled over suddenly, shifting the car into park. Patton looked up from where he was trying to figure out how to fold the map, eyebrows furrowing.

Remus hopped out, leaving the car running. He’d have to be quick, the car didn’t do well running while parked. He walked around the front, coughing slightly at the heavy humidity, then yanked open the passenger door.

“ _Want to drive?_ ” he signed to a bemused Patton. Patton’s eyes blew wide, and he shook his head frantically.

“ _C’mon, it’s not hard and it’s safe. Twenty minutes? I’ll teach you._ ”

Patton sat there for a few moments, eyes glazing over slightly as he stared into nothing. He started to shake his head, but then something sparked behind his eyes.

“ _Why not?_ ” he signed recklessly. “ _It can’t be too hard._ ”

-

“No. No no no no nO NO NO!”

Patton laughed. Remus covered his eyes, his mouth still making the same ‘no’ shape over and over. At least he could recognize that word.

Driving was definitely scary, but everything was scary, so how was this any different from stepping outside or going to therapy or typing on a computer? How could this be worse than being locked in a room for over a year and being experimented on?

Exactly. Compared to that, driving was easy. A breeze, like Remus would say. Not that Remus felt the same way. Remus seemed pretty upset about this.

Patton stepped on the gas and Remus jumped in the seat next to him, shaking his hands frantically and waving at the road. Patton was fine though, nobody was around and he was still on the road! He pressed down a bit harder, seeing the speedometer tick up to 70.

Remus had shown him the basics, how to brake and speed up, how to steer, to check his mirrors and whatever else. The windows were down because that was the first thing he’d shown him how to do, and Patton really really liked the wind through his hair. It was a bit chilly, but it felt so nice. So … free.

Patton whooped, something rising in his chest that just made him have to scream. He probably sounded ridiculous. He did it again.

Remus pulled on his arm, signing “ _Stop stop stop_ ” repeatedly. He pointed ahead—a turn in the road.

They hadn’t had any turns so far.

Patton kept going. It couldn’t be too hard, right? He knew how to steer, he just had to turn the wheel! It seriously couldn’t be that different than what had happened so far. Remus was still frantically signing the word ‘Stop’ at him, but Patton just let his foot off the gas (to slow down a bit, he didn’t know how hard this would be) and yanked the steering wheel to the left.

Patton’s stomach dropped and his hair whipped into his mouth and eyes. The car tipped, tipped, had to only be on two wheels—and landed, going far too fast and heading for the freshly plowed field just past the grassy ditch that ran beside the road. Patton was definitely screaming now, his head feeling like it was freezing over, his hands gripping the wheel as tightly as he could. He couldn’t even think, other than about how raw his throat felt already, and how did he stop again? How did he do anything?

His eyes caught the speedometer—35—then they hit a bump that would have jolted him out of his seat had he not been wearing his seatbelt. They had officially gone over what might count as the curb, this was not good at all. What was he supposed—the brakes!

Patton slammed his foot down on the brakes and felt his stomach leap into his eyes as the car jolted to a halt. He gasped slightly, feeling his hair fall back down as something clicked and the car settled back into park.

Patton opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—to see that the nose of the car was pointed into the ditch, the front wheels over the barely-there curb. Remus had his hand on the stick still, having pulled it into park after Patton hit the brakes. Their eyes met, and for a long moment they just breathed heavily, hair tangled and eyes far too big.

Then they both laughed, hard and long and from the belly, laughed until neither of them could breathe and tears streamed from their eyes. They laughed until someone pulled over and asked if they were all right. They laughed even as they switched seats and Remus pulled them back onto the road.

They laughed, and Patton felt something inside, where the heat of the anger had been for so long, cool down.

-

Patton wasn’t allowed to drive anymore.

-

Remus rolled over, pulling the blanket closer around him. Patton had fallen asleep pretty quickly, but he had the backseat tonight so more room to stretch out. Maybe a quick walk would help?

He eased the passenger door open as quietly as possible, before remembering that Patton wouldn’t hear it. Then he was extra careful to get out slowly, because the guy would definitely wake up if the car rocked too much.

The truck lot was almost empty, just one trucker spending the night here. Remus strolled around, pulling his worn, secondhand coat tighter around himself. It was windy, so windy that Remus was thrown into a memory.

-

_He was alone on the watch tonight, patrolling the parameters of the Haven slowly. It was a windy night, tearing at his thin jacket and blowing dust into his face, causing coughing fits every couple of minutes. In the past, the wind would curl his hair into impossible knots that he wouldn’t even try to get out, then his mom would sneakily run a hairbrush through it when he was turned around. Back then, Remus would have snapped at her and thrown the hairbrush to the other side of the room._

_Now, Remus would give anything just to see his mom. Or feel something in his hair, he added mentally, running a hand over how stubbly it was. Once he was out of here, he was never going to cut it again. And he was gonna grow a mustache. That would be fire._

_He’d been getting more and more homesick lately, but at least he’d been able to hide it so far. You were s’posed to report anyone who talked about the Outside like it was a good thing, and the few people he knew who had been reported for talking about home had come back from a month of meetings with the Prophets not willing to talk at all. There was a rumor passing around the guards that those who came out of the Sessions didn’t even remember the Outside._

_Remus wasn’t sure how true that was, but he wasn’t willing to take any chances. Sure, he might have left them. Maybe they’d fought a bunch. But he loved them, as gross as it was. These days, the memory of them was the only thing keeping him going. Remus Allred couldn’t forget his family. He wouldn’t survive it._

-

Remus blinked as a piece of hair tickled his nose. He shoved it back to join the rest of his head, then blinked around at the dark parking lot, lit by a single low-grade lamp post. The wind continued to whistle around him.

Allred.

Remus had been caught because of the most stupid thing: talking in his sleep. Someone reported him, and he ended up standing before the Prophets for the Sessions, something he’d hoped he’d never have to bear.

And it had sucked.

Remus kicked a chunk of asphalt that had become dislodged from the rest of the lot, trying his best not to let the burning in his eyes become tears. It still sucked! How stupid could he be? He’d let the worst thing happen. He’d let them take away his family.

Well, too bad! Because even taking them away didn’t make him want to stay! He’d found more family in Logan, and then eventually Patton, and now he was finding the family that they had taken. Allred. Allred was his name, Remus Allred. Remus Joseph Allred did not back down, did not give up.

And he was almost home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this chapter lol, it's based off my own experiences with learning to drive (you should ask my mom about that time I took a sharp turn in a busy intersection at 45mph, or about the time I ran over the curb and almost crashed into the bank).  
> Stay safe all, please don't drive recklessly and wear a seatbelt!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, writing this chapter: I am going to create a situation that is so awkward,
> 
> cw: food

~SHARON~

_welcomes you_

Remus eyed the sign suspiciously as he drove past. It was set low in the ground, as if it had sunk a bit over time. It didn’t look familiar at all—none of this did. Did he have the wrong place?

Patton shifted a bit in the seat beside him, looking around with interest. They’d reached their destination, after all. Remus couldn’t help but doubt himself. There were other Sharons in the country, after all. Maybe they’d just gone to the wrong one.

Something about this city called to him, sure. But that didn’t mean anything—the cult had called to him too. Remus’s instincts weren’t the best.

He was roused from his thoughts when Patton softly tapped his shoulder. They were passing a grocery store—Save A Lot. It was time for lunch, wasn’t it?

Remus pulled left into the parking lot of the store, which was fairly empty for midday Friday. Only three cars, and a fourth pulling in at the same time as them. Remus parked in between two of the other cars there (mostly because he could) and hopped out, taking a moment to stretch before entering the store. Patton got out too, walking around to the driver’s side while Remus continued to reach toward the sky.

Patton led the way, holding the door open for Remus, who looked up as the bell jingled. An older man waved from behind the counter. A shopper milled about in the nearest aisle. Classic rock played quietly in the background. It was nice, in a weird way. Very peaceful. Very easy.

Pat headed for the bathroom and Remus watched him for a second, before turning down one of the aisles at random. They probably needed some fruit or something. He followed the aisle through to the small produce section on the other side of the store. Another employee leaned against the meat counter on the other side of the section, eyes glued to his phone. Remus froze and stared at him, waiting to be told that he wasn’t allowed back here. Nothing happened.

Remus fully exited the aisle and checked out the fruit. Oranges, apples, different apples, a handful of pineapples. The oranges were the cheapest, and Patton needed citrus too. There was a vitamin in citrus, right? Vitamin D? C?

Whatever it was, he was pretty sure that Patty needed it. He needed every vitamin, actually. Remus picked up an orange, about to pull a plastic bag from the roll.

“Oh my gosh. No way!”

Remus dropped the orange, spinning on his heel and straightening up. His heartrate spiked, breathing quickened, and he stood at attention, keeping his eyes on the linoleum floor.

“Remus?”

He chanced a quick look up, forcing his eyes almost immediately back down. He saw … a woman. Young, probably about his age. Tall. A shopping basket over her arm (probably why he hadn’t heard her coming. No squeaky wheels). Smiling. She was completely unfamiliar, but by now the watery reflection of the lights on the floor had gotten into his head where he was. In a grocery store. In his hometown. Not back there.

With effort, Remus wrenched his head up, meeting the woman’s eyes. “H-hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “What’s up?”

“So it is you!” The woman laughed a little. “I haven’t seen you in years. How’re your parents?”

This woman knew him. So he had definitely lived here. But this wasn’t a very big city, and if she knew him, then she had to have known his family, right? Why would she have to ask him how they were? Had they moved away? Cold clutched at his heart as he considered that option. They can’t have. He can’t have lost them before he even found them.

“I-I dunno, just got in town. Haven’t even dropped by yet.”

The woman nodded. “Where do you live now?”

“Other side of the country,” Remus hedged, “Desert-y place.”

“Oh, I grew up in Arizona,” the woman said, almost commiseratingly. “So hot. There were days that I’d just go stick my head in the freezer.”

Remus laughed nervously. “Yep, wish—wish I coulda done that.”

“Mhm. Really, I haven’t seen you since—gosh, since we graduated! You didn’t even come to the graduation itself, I heard that you skipped town practically the day after school got out.”

Okay, someone he’d gone to high school with. Remus remembered being sorta close with the other kids on the soccer teams, but he mostly hung out with the stoner kids to annoy his parents. He couldn’t see how he would know this chick. Maybe they’d been lab partners? Or maybe she’d been someone he hung out with?

The woman seemed to be casting around for something to say, her eyes eventually falling on his face. “Wow, that mustache has really filled out, huh?”

Remus’s hand flew up to smooth it unconsciously. “Yep, this is a couple years’ hard work,” he boasted. The woman chuckled.

“No offense, but it used to be this terrible shrimpy little thing,” she said. “I remember prom night when you picked me up you were all grumpy because your mom made you shave it off. You didn’t even talk to me until we got there!”

Oh shoot.

Oh no.

This was an old girlfriend.

Remus hadn’t dated anyone in years. He’d tried for a while, those first months in the cult. But the gals weren’t interested and the guys were too scared, so he’d given up. He hadn’t really minded it, honestly—he had dated all through high school, but looking back he only did it to make his parents mad. They didn’t want him steady dating until he was an adult, and definitely didn’t want him dating dudes and stoners, so he had done both over and over again between the ages of thirteen and eighteen.

Now, though?

Maybe it was just the cult stuff talking, but Remus wasn’t interested in a partner. The romance part sounded cute (he’d never admit it, but part of him really wanted to curl up with his partner and watch a romcom, teasing each other lightly), but the rest of it sounded like way too much of a hassle. He didn’t have the time, not when he was carrying the load of three different people’s trauma. And while he had a feeling that the commitment might help ground him, he just wasn’t interested in the rest of it. If that made sense. Heck, this was his own head and it didn’t really make sense.

Anyways, he remembered this woman, just a little. Not much about her, or how well they worked together, or if they had truly been in love. He mostly remembered that he had left without breaking up with her, without even telling her goodbye.

“Yeah, I was a terrible kid,” he said, secretly waiting for her to agree with him. Instead she shrugged.

“Sure, you were always hanging out with weird people,” she replied, “but you were very kind. I definitely don’t think we were meant for each other, but I had fun with you.” She winked and Remus almost physically recoiled. He didn’t like when people winked.

A hand tapped his elbow and Remus jolted, turning his head. Patton was there, smirking a little bit.

The woman’s eyes traveled between them, clearly trying to figure out their relationship. “Boyfriends … ?”

“Kidnapper and victim,” Remus said, turning back to her fully and smiling toothily. He felt a little bit more in control now. She barely seemed uncomfortable, instead sharing her own smile.

“Right. Well, tell your parents I said hi,” she said, waving slightly. Remus noticed the ring on her wedding finger, but before he could ask, she answered.

“D’you remember Claire, from the swim team?”

Remus opened his mouth to lie, but she continued to talk.

“Well, after you left, she comforted me and helped me decide what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, and the answer turned out to be her!” the woman laughed at her own joke, and Remus laughed along, not quite sure why. It was obviously a practiced line, and he didn’t really find it funny either.

The woman reached out and patted him on the shoulder, a warm look in her eyes. “Seriously, it was great to see you. Everyone was really worried about you, we thought you’d died in some ditch. Take care!” And with that, she was turning down another aisle, quickly out of sight.

“ _Who was that?_ ” Patton asked as soon as Remus turned to him. The smirk was gone, his eyes now wary.

“ _A friend from when I was a kid_ ,” Remus signed distractedly, looking at the oranges again. He grabbed two, then a third one just in case and led the way back to the cash registers. On the way he snagged a package of beef jerky, grimacing at the price.

That was the weirdest encounter he’d had, probably ever. At least it was proof that they were in the right place.

-

“No clue where we are,” Remus sang under his breath, checking the street signs as they passed a church. The area looked vaguely familiar, so that had to mean something, right? Apparently not, because after the grocery store experience, everything looked familiar. He pulled to stop in front of a stop sign, patting Logan’s car as it groaned. For a moment, he let his eyes close and his head rest on the steering wheel.

Patton tapped his arm, waiting for him to look. “Trust your instincts,” he signed, finger-spelling the last word. He smiled softly at Remus, then turned back to the window, pulling the patched hoodie closer around his shoulders. Remus took a deep breath. He could do this. He’d survived a cult. He’d saved a whole kid from the same cult. He was awesome.

Remus took his foot off the brake, letting the car carry him from street to street, waiting for something to happen. If this didn’t work, then he’d go street by street, knocking on every door until he found his parents and brother.

Then, as he turned right in a somewhat busy intersection, his hands spasmed. Muscle memory took over, and he turned right again onto a smaller street. Memories of driving this road far too fast in the darkness of late nights and early morning flooded his mind, overlapping and playing simultaneously. In the memories, he followed this street through, then turned left at the end of it.

So he did, his arms turning the wheel almost without conscious input. Another two turns, and he was Euclid Ave, a street name that made his heart jump into his throat. Just two houses down, there it was.

150 Euclid Ave.

Suddenly, the home phone number was on the tip of his tongue—he’d memorized them together. He recalled his parents, sitting on the sofa, clapping for a miniature version of him reciting the full address and phone number.

He stared at the house so hard stars appeared in his vision, surprised to feel almost nothing. It was familiar of course, just like everything else, but it was also … normal. It almost felt like he’d never left. Or like he’d gone back in time, back to when this was right. Back to when this was who he was.

“Home?” Patton asked out loud, the middle of the word slurring a little. Remus’s eyes misted a little bit.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Home.”

-

_Knock-knock-knock._

Remus rocked back onto his heels, shooting a reassuring smile to Patton. He could do this. No sounds came from inside the house, but there were two cars in the driveway, so someone had to be home. Hopefully both were his parents, then he could see everyone together.

But his brother could drive now, right?

They were five years apart. When he’d left, his brother had been in middle school. Now he was probably in college. If he was away at school, he wouldn’t be home right now, would he?

Remus knocked again.

Now there was sound from inside, the creaking of footsteps on floorboards, the running water. Adrenaline suddenly pumped through his veins, and the wild thought of running back to the car crossed his mind. He could get out before they ever knew he was here, just leave and nothing would change.

Did he want it to change?

 _Click-click_. The door unlocked.

Swung open.

Remus composed his face the best he could, trying to smile and look as normal as possible. He could do this. He could do this.

He looked up.

A face, lined, clean-shaven, framed with close-cut dark hair that was greying at the ends. A face that Remus saw from the stage of a talent show, sitting in the audience, smiling and clapping along with his clarinet rendition of Jingle Bells.

The shoulders were broader than Remus ever thought his own would be, proved otherwise by time. Remus saw the shoulders from the closet of his parents’ room, where occasionally on Sunday afternoons the boy was allowed to try on suit coats that swallowed him completely.

The left hand had a simple silver band, one that Remus could see resting on the aluminum foil ring holder he’d made in class as a Father’s Day present. He’d always been afraid that it would catch his fingers when they played the hand stacking game.

Remus’s eyes traveled back up the arm, the shoulder, the neck, the face, back to the eyes. Blue, almost grey, a color that neither he nor his brother had inherited.

“Hey dad,” he croaked. “I’m home.”

The eyes widened.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y’all’s breaks went well! Enjoy this next chapter!
> 
> cw: awkward family reunions, depression

His mom hadn’t stopped crying. His dad kept sitting down and standing back up, only to fall back in his seat and run a hand through his hair. Patton sat awkwardly next to Remus, his hands bunching in his hoodie. Remus felt just as uncomfortable as Patton looked.

This wasn’t their couch. His parents must have junked the old one. Also, the kitchen had been redone, as far as he could tell from the glimpses of it he’d caught. There was a sleek piano in the corner of the room, a thin layer of dust over the keys. Roman had been taking piano lessons last he knew, he must’ve gotten good enough to actually have one in the home.

“I just don’t understand,” his dad said for the third time. “I don’t at all mean to say that you aren’t welcome. You’ve always been welcome here, and you always will be. But … why?”

“Where have you been, Remus?” his mom asked, pulling another tissue out of the box to rub at her eyes with. Remus looked from one to the other, sitting on a matching couch. Why did they need two couches?

“Um, I’ve been in some … bad places,” Remus hedged. He felt weirdly numb. He tried not to look at his mom—seeing other people cry made him cry. Instead, he let his eyes fall over the decor. The religious imagery that had made him so angry years ago now brought him no feelings whatsoever, he was surprised to find. Some family photos were on the wall by the front door, the latest three not including him. On another wall was school pictures, with a few new ones. That one, next to his senior photo, must be Roman’s. Remus almost laughed—Roman had glasses, like he’d always insisted he’d never need.

“Where’s Roman?” he asked in lieu of actually answering the question. His mom laughed weakly.

“Away at school,” she said. “But we were expecting him, otherwise your father might not have answered the door. It’s spring break next week.”

“What’s he studying?” He continued to not look at either of them.

“Music education,” his father answered. Patton tapped his knee, and Remus looked over. Patton raised his eyebrows in a simple question, but Remus wasn’t sure how to respond. What could he say? ‘ _Oh, I left my parents during a fight and now I don’t know how to talk to them but other than that it’s going fine_ ’?

“Remus, honey… .” his mom was crying anew and Remus forced himself to meet her eyes. It was clear that his discomfort was showing. “Are you happy? Safe?”

Remus bit his lip and glanced at Pat again. There’d been an unasked question there. “I’ve … been through some stuff.” Remus gathered his strength. This was going to be hard to say. “I … really, really missed you.” He laughed self-consciously. “Every step of the way, I’ve been thinking about you and tryin’a get back. I’ve changed a lot.”

parents were silent, except for his mom’s continued sniffling. Remus looked down. The rug was obviously new, but the same design as the one they’d had before.

“I’m so proud of you, boo,” his dad said, and Remus found himself grinning at the old nickname. He looked up again, saw his father’s eyes were teary as well, and his head fell right back down. “It’s so good to see you. How long are you staying?”

“Shoot, I’ve gotta call Lo,” Remus said aloud as his dad’s question triggered the thought. “I borrowed his car and he wants it back in like, a week. Can I borrow the phone?”

His dad stood again but this time left the room, presumably to retrieve the home phone. Remus’s mom sighed, clapping her hands together. Remus dragged his eyes away from the most recent family portrait to look at her.

Her hair was so thin, grey at the roots—she probably dyed it to keep it brown. Her face was lined, at least as much as his dad’s. Otherwise, she looked pretty much the same. Remus even recognized the shirt she was wearing as one that she’d wear on ‘dressy’ days, like when ladies from church were coming over.

“Um, would you like to introduce me to your—” her eyes darted between the two— “friend?”

Oh, right. That was a thing that needed to happen. “This is Pat,” he said, gesturing vaguely at him, “Pat, this is my mom.”

Remus’s mom smiled at Patton. “Hello, Pat,” she said sweetly.

Patton glanced at Remus before saying, mostly clear, “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Allred.” Remus grinned. That was one of the sentences that Pat had practiced on the way here.

“Oh, please, call me Sharon,” his mom waved, before smiling widely at both of them. It only took a glance at Patton’s uncertain smile to know that he had no clue what she said. “How long did you say you were going to stay?”

“I didn’t,” muttered Remus. “Are you okay with us being here for a little while? I dunno that I really have another place.” After all, Logan lived halfway across the country, and who knew if Logan would ever be willing to share a place with him again.

“Of course, as long as you need,” his mother said placatingly. She frowned slightly. “You and Pat’ll have to share, though.”

Wait, what about the guest bedroom? He knew they had one—or did they not anymore? Did his parents get another kid after he left? It was entirely possible, but if they had, why hadn’t they just cleaned out Remus’s room? They still needed a guest room—you never knew when your estranged son and some rando would just turn up at the door.

His eyes burned slightly as he thought back to every reason that had kept him from getting back sooner. If he had, maybe his parents wouldn’t have replaced him.

“It’s just that, Roman’s friend from school is staying in the guest room right now,” his mom said, interrupting his rapidly spiraling thoughts. “He’s going through a rough patch and didn’t have a home, so we’re letting him stay here for now.”

Remus took a deep breath. He hadn’t been replaced. The amount of relief he felt was disproportionate to his feelings on the matter—he didn’t really care. He was a full adult, after all. He didn’t need to have any of this. He was self-sufficient, or was trying to be. Why did he feel so weird about the idea of leaving again?

That moment was when his dad returned with the phone. Time to call Logan and let him know what’s up. His fingers traced over the worn buttons, rubbing away a thin layer of dust—clearly, the landline wasn’t used all that regularly. It wasn’t hard to push the buttons in the same order that he had every day since they left.

-

_Rrrrrrrring. Rrrrrrrring. Rrrrrrrring._

The phone would ring nine times if left before going to voicemail, but Logan never let it get beyond the fourth ring. He blinked blearily, reaching out for the phone on the arm of the couch beside him. He must have fallen asleep here between shifts again. The number registered as unknown, but so had every number that had called him in the past week.

He answered without a second thought, clearing his throat. “Remus?”

“Hey Lo,” a tinny voice answered. “What’s up?”

“How is Patton?”

“Wooow, no ‘hello, Remus’? No ‘are you doing okay after driving for so long’? I see how it is.”

Logan stood, pacing across the living room. His steps staggered as he avoided the coat that he’d dropped on the floor earlier. “Remus, how is my son?”

“He’s fine. He’s actually having a lot of fun.”

Remus had said something along those lines with every call. As always, Logan felt a jerk of guilt. Not only was Patton safe—well, as safe as one could be with Remus—but he was enjoying himself. He shoved the guilt away as he stepped into the kitchen.

The few dishes that Logan possessed had not been washed, instead sitting in the sink to grow mold. As of today he had begun using paper plates despite being afraid of the extra waste. It was just too much, standing at the sink for so long, accomplishing so little. That was also why he hadn’t shaved since Monday. The stubble was moderately itchy, but he could not bring himself to properly care.

“I am glad to hear that the both of you are safe at the present,” Logan said, checking the time. He had time to walk to the 7-Eleven down the street before his tutoring engagement this afternoon. He would probably spend the extra bit of money and purchase something already prepared.

He swung in a circle, walking back to the living room and through it to his bedroom. The only light on in the house was the kitchen light. It was the only one he required on a daily basis.

“Tell me you’re takin’ care of yourself.”

“I am taking care of myself,” Logan responded absently. There was a sigh on the other end.

“C’mon, Lo,” Remus said. “Did you shave today?”

Logan frowned. Remus was too observant for his own good. “I do not need you worrying about me, Remus. I am a fully capable adult.”

“So is Patton.”

Logan choked. “W-well, I don’t—I don’t know that—”

“Please,” Remus cut him off. “He can take care of himself and did a bang-up job of it while you were gone. He’s doin’ great right now. He misses you, but he’s fine.”

“I know,” Logan said, almost to himself. “I know he is. Of course he is.” Remus had spent most of their phone calls telling him about how capable and ready to be an adult Patton was. He was … well, he did not at all like it. But Remus had told him he didn’t need to, just needed to accept it. He was not there yet, though. At this point, he was certain he would completely fall apart if Patton refused to come home. “Are you sure?” he couldn’t help but add, as he always did.

“Very. One hundred percent sure.”

Logan took a moment to breathe, completely pulling off his tie from where it hung loose on his neck. “All right. Where are you?”

“Made it home,” Remus said, and Logan caught the slight wobble in his voice, quickly disguised. “My mom and dad are here. My brother’s s’posed to be home any minute now.”

“I wish you all the luck,” Logan said sincerely. He was happy for Remus—underneath the anger he still harbored at the man for taking his son away, and the grief over his son leaving, and the fear he felt for them both. “Please, please be careful.”

“I always am.”

The line went dead. Logan mechanically lowered his phone, setting it on his desk beside his unpacked satchel. It was the same one that he’d used in the Haven, a little worn here and there, but he couldn’t afford another. He hadn’t emptied out the bag in almost a week, just digging through the mess when he required something from it.

He dropped his tie beside both items. Slowly, as if moving through water, Logan fell to his knees in the middle of the growing disaster that he called his bedroom. The tears he expected did not come.

-

Patton perched on the edge of the couch, trying to not let his anxiety show. Remus had smiled at him and mouthed ‘he’s fine’ after the phone call ended, but now Patton had no idea what was going on. Remus’s mom had been crying all the way through, but now Remus’s dad was too, and even more uncomfortably, so was Remus. Patton really felt like he ought to be crying too, but there was nothing to cry about from his point of view. Maybe they were just really happy? They weren’t yelling at each other, so it wasn’t an argument. Maybe Remus was talking about the Haven. That would probably make people cry.

He felt awkward, sure, but also bored. There was very little stimulation here, almost as bad as his Father’s apartment. There were weird pictures and paintings on the walls of men he didn’t recognize, and a hand-painted board wrapped in twine set on the mantel reading The Allred Home. The ‘o’ was a miniature heart. It was all so … weird. Not for the first time, Patton yearned so deeply that Virgil was here to explain things to him in his safe, Virgil way.

Patton kept his eyes on the wall opposite the couch, which was set against the wall with the front door. Occasionally, he stole a glance at the conversation, but he couldn’t understand a word that they were saying. He felt discouraged—he knew the theory! He had practiced with Remus loads of times! Neither of those things were anything like this.

Patches of light flashed on the wall in front of him, and Patton frowned before remembering the window at his back. He craned his neck around, hoping nobody was paying attention to him. A dark green car was pulling into the driveway behind Father’s car. The sun reflecting off it had caused the light on the wall.

Who was this? Remus had mentioned a brother, so maybe it was him? Or someone else? Patton turned back to the room and tapped Remus lightly on the arm, pointing at the window when he looked at him.

Remus’s dad stood up and smiled at Patton, though it was kind of negated by how red his nose still was. In two strides the man crossed the room and unlocked the front door, saying something Patton couldn’t hear as he pulled it open.

Sunlight filled the room, and someone stepped in.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> cw: light physical violence, spiraling thoughts

They always say that time stops. The world freezes. Nothing so much as breathes when you meet their eyes. The world is dreamlike, and the two of you are the only things in it. The only life, pulled together by instantaneous love.

That wasn’t what happened when Patton saw Virgil.

Instead, time seemed to skip a beat, then move even faster than before.

Several seconds were lost, and Patton stared around as the room changed. Remus’s parents were hugging the other person who entered with Virgil, who he guessed was Remus’s brother Roman. Remus was standing now, closer to the mantel on the other side of the room, and suddenly Remus’s dad wasn’t even in the room, he was outside with Roman, and Virgil was leaving too. Patton exchanged a look with Remus—he clearly recognized Virgil. He looked scared, and kept biting his lips. Patton felt fear rise, and almost stood up himself—it felt strange, to be the only thing that hadn’t moved. Like he was in the eye of a storm. It was times like these that Patton wished he could hear.

Roman was back and Remus seemed to cower away, turning his face. That didn’t hide him. Roman’s eyes landed on Patton for a moment, who waved awkwardly. A crease of confusion appeared between his eyes, barely affecting his cheery smile, then he saw Remus and his face lost all color and the smile slid from his lips.

Roman stepped forward slowly, as if time had stopped for him—and maybe it had. Patton felt afraid to breathe, afraid to disturb the almost shimmering quality of this meeting. Roman approached his brother, and Patton could certainly see the resemblance. Sure, Roman’s hair was shorter and styled, and he was clean-shaven, but the two were almost exactly the same height. Their hair color was within a shade of difference, and Roman had that same dimple that Remus did. Even their body types appeared to be modeled off each other. If Patton hadn’t known better, he would have guessed they were twins.

Roman was turned away from him, so if he said anything, Patton didn’t know. What Patton did know was that Remus said something, accompanied with a slight quirk of his mouth, then crumpled against the wall as Roman’s fist hit his face.

Patton did jump up now, and Remus’s dad ran to check on Remus while his mom held Roman back. Then Patton turned to the door and saw Virgil again, clearly saying something, eyes scrunched up as he ran his fingers along his forearm.

Virgil. He looked just like himself, but different. His hair was shorter—normal length for him, probably, just dipping into his eyes. His eyes were far more clear than Patton had ever seen them, and he was surprised to see just how sparkly they really were—almost as if rays of sun were peeking through the cloudy grey. His jeans were torn and splattered with paint, but it was probably on purpose. He was wearing a hoodie, plain black, not near as nice as the purple-patched one Patton was wearing. His cheeks were full, there was a ring on his hand, his shoes were nice.

For everything that made Virgil unrecognizable, there was something that was unmistakably him. The shadows under his eyes matched the black of his jacket. His fingers tapped lithely on his forearm, as if spelling. His stance was slouched, and the curve of his lip caught between his teeth spoke volumes about how anxious he was. He ran one hand through his hair, causing it to stick straight up and causing Patton to experience a wave of intense homesickness. This was his Virgil.

Patton was across the room in three strides that felt like only half of one, time skipping again until he found himself in front of Virgil, tripping over a bump in the carpet, quite literally falling into his arms. Virgil tensed. Patton waited.

And waited.

Wasn’t this when everything was supposed to become perfect? The moment where it all washed away, and nothing mattered except him? A shield against the outer world, safe forever in his arms.

But Patton still felt hurt. He still felt angry at his father. He still felt lost. He still felt like something inside was broken, or missing, or taken. Being with Virgil was supposed to fix everything, but nothing felt like it had changed.

Tears built up in Patton’s eyes as he let Virgil push him away. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Why wasn’t it okay yet? Why did he still feel wrong?

He loved Virgil so much. Maybe he could be not-okay. Maybe he could be not-better, with Virgil.

That sounded … all right. That sounded lovely, even.

Softly, Patton took Virgil’s arm, not letting him jerk away when he tried. _Virgil_ , he traced, trying not to let the tears spill onto his cheeks. _Virgil, Virgil, Virgil. It’s me. It’s me. It’s Patton_.

-

“Roman Hyrum Allred! Do not punch your brother—do not punch anyone!”

“Nah, it’s … it’s, uh, okay. Dad.” Remus prodded his nose gingerly. It stung, but didn’t seem to be broken. “I told him he could.”

Roman shook his hand out, pulling away from their mom. “Hey,” he said casually. “Where’ve you been?”

Remus let his dad help him up. “Around,” he answered, just as casually. He didn’t really feel like baring his soul at the moment.

“Remus, are you all right?” his dad asked quietly, checking out his face with concern. It must’ve looked pretty bad. Still, Remus waved him off.

“Yeah. Just glad he remembered the three R’s.”

Across from him, Roman smiled sheepishly. “I kept my promise.” He laughed slightly, then let the smile fade. “Why are you here?”  
This was sort of what Remus had been afraid of. He didn’t exactly feel welcome, but to have it spelled out like that sucked. His family had grown up without him. Roman looked so old, No longer the little middle-school kid in the front row of the choir concert. He just couldn’t wrap his head around it—he’d accepted long ago that he’d lost them, probably forever. Now, though, it really hit home. Remus hadn’t just lost them. He’d lost an entire life, one that he wasn’t sure he could ever get back.

Even now, surrounded by his family, he felt like a stranger. The house was the same house, these were the same people, but he no longer belonged to them. It felt fake. Nothing like how he’d imagined a reunion to be.

Remus wondered if he could pass off the tears as a result of the burning in his nose.

“I, uh,” Remus cleared his throat. “I got lost. And trapped.” He held Roman’s gaze. There was nothing familiar in those eyes. “I tell ya, all I’ve wanted for years was to come back.”

“So why didn’t you?” Roman asked. He didn’t waver, didn’t even blink, his expression more solemn than Remus had ever seen on a thirteen year old–because he wasn’t thirteen. He was a whole adult.

“It’s not that simple—” Remus started, but Roman cut him off.

“Yes it is.” His tone brokered no argument, and Remus watched the openness in his eyes shutter closed. “It is that simple. All you have to do is tell me where you were and why you couldn’t come back. That’s all I need. Then I’ll forgive you.”

Remus balked. He wasn’t here for forgiveness—except he was, sort of. He wanted to make up for leaving them, he wanted to tell them everything that had kept him from returning home, but the words stuck in his throat. How could he sit them down and calmly explain that he got caught up in a cult that brainwashed him to the point of rewriting and erasing old memories? How could he tell them that he only barely escaped with his life, then struggled to even remember their names?

“I can’t,” he muttered. Roman turned away.  
“Of course,” Roman said tiredly. “Like always. Virgil, would you—?” he fell silent. Roman’s arms fell to his sides as he stared at something. Remus leaned to the side, trying to see what it was.

Remus had seen Virgil when he’d walked in, but had completely ignored him. It was absurd for him to be here—what were the odds that Virgil would be kidnapped by a cult Remus was in, and also know Roman, halfway across the country? Remus would have written it off as a hallucination if Patton hadn’t also seen him. So instead, he decided to focus on more tangible things, like his college-age brother and his unfamiliar eyes.

Now Virgil had fallen to his knees, his mouth an ‘o’, choking on tears. In his arms was Patton, also bawling his eyes out. They were holding onto each other so tightly Remus could see Virgil’s knuckles turning white, bunched up in Pat’s hoodie. Honestly? Remus wasn’t surprised. Other than, of course, the ongoing shock that Virgil was even here.

This was the weirdest day ever, and coming from a man who had lived in a cult for about a decade? That was saying something.

Roman crouched beside the two, laying his hand on Patton’s back. “You must be Patton,” he said kindly. “It’s so good to meet you.”

Okay, now Remus was crying. When had his brother graduated from the shrimpy little eighth grader who was constantly picking fights to a smiling young man who would comfort people he hardly knew? Not for the first time (and certainly not for the last), Remus wished he’d never left.

Virgil laughed wetly, briefly letting go of Patton to lightly smack Roman’s arm. “He can’t hear, moron,” he croaked.

Remus left before he could see any more, stumbling a bit in the doorway of the kitchen. This wasn’t really his moment. This wasn’t his moment, or home, or life. This all felt so … weird. So … out of place.

Roman seemed happy, at least. Better than he’d been before he left. Remus couldn’t believe he’d remembered, and kept that promise all those years.

-

“ _You gotta stop fighting everyone.”_

_“You’re not my dad!”_

_The kid turned away, tension in every line of his body. Remus rolled his eyes. “So?” he said, shutting his bedroom door. “Stop acting out. It’s embarrassing.”_

_Roman laughed bitterly. “For who? You?”_

_“Yeah, maybe!”_

_Roman turned back. Tears were dripping from the corners of his eyes. “Well, maybe I don’t want to be good at school! That’s all you all want from me, isn’t it? You don’t actually care about me!”_

_If Remus knew anything, that was teenage angst. Roman was barely thirteen, why did he have so much already?_

_“I never said you had to be good at school,” Remus replied, gesturing to the bed. Roman didn’t sit down. “I just said you need to stop fighting. School blows. I don’t care if you get good grades or whatever. But it’s even worse without friends, and y’aren’t gonna have any of those if you don’t stop throwing hands and start shaking hands.”_

_“But I want to hit things!” To prove his point, the kid stomped hard enough that the bed shook._

_“Okay, how about this?” Remus took a step closer, spreading his arms wide. “You’re mad? Hit me. You can take it out on me because I’m your brother. You can lose friends. You can’t lose me. We’re stuck together.”_

_Roman bit his lip and looked away. Remus waited patiently. After clearly thinking it over for a few moments, Roman turned back. His eyes were squinted, but trusting._

“ _Promise?”_

_“‘Course I do.”_

_“But what if there’s someone else who really needs to be punched?”_

_Remus burst out laughing. “Like who?”_

_Roman shrugged, his foot tracing a circle on the floor. “I dunno. Some people just need it, y’know?”_

_Remus considered it, still chuckling. Some people did need it. “All right, people who deserve it. Maybe… .” he paused, then it came to him. “Three groups of people, okay?”_

_Roman nodded, grinning._

_“The three R’s,” Remus said, counting them off on his fingers. “Racists, rapists, and Remus. That’s who you can punch, and that’s it. Promise?”_

_“Promise.”_

_Then Roman’s fist collided with his stomach and Remus ducked away, laughing._

  
-

Well, Roman had kept his promise. Remus hadn’t kept his own.

“Son? Do you need anything?”

Remus stared out the kitchen window, trying to avoid looking at the all-new tiling, or his mother, or back at the living room. “N-no,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m good. Thanks, Mom.”

-

Virgil’s brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept accusing Patton of being a hallucination, or telling him he was back in the room, or insisting that this was just a dream.

Virgil ignored it. Even if this wasn’t real, it was everything he wanted.

It was night now, but his mind hadn’t stopped racing. Just this morning he’d been running to English to turn in a paper before the professor’s office closed, and now he was in bed with the love of—with Patton wrapped around him. Virgil had no clue what time it was. He didn’t want to move to tap his phone and jostle Patton. Still, it was probably late enough that everyone else was asleep.

Patton wasn’t. He was laying very still, his head pressed against Virgil’s chest, but he was definitely not asleep. His breathing was too loud, and his body too stiff.

The first thing Roman had done was call Virgil’s therapist to gloat or something. Virgil had begged him not too, but a Roman with a purpose was unstoppable. So now Virgil had no therapist because Roman got caught up in the moment and fired her.

Throughout all that, Virgil never let go of Patton. He knew his way around the Allred household better than Patton did, but let him guide anyway. They even held hands during dinner, making it awkward to use silverware, but Virgil wouldn’t have it any other way.

It hit him again just how impossible this was. That Patton was here.

Remus had told a very long story about it, but one that was definitely censored. He hadn’t talked much at all about his own time in the cult, which Virgil was very curious about. He hadn’t recognized him until he mentioned rescuing Virgil.

Remus had put all the pieces together, in a way. He was the connection, the one who knew everybody in the story. It felt crazy—the same man who dragged him from the cult was the same man who was friends with Patton’s dad and was the same man who was his roommate’s long lost brother. No, it didn’t just feel crazy. It was absolutely insane.

Patton shifted, drawing his leg down from where it was draped over Virgil’s. Then he snuffled, reached out, and clicked on a light. He lay half on top of Virgil, so that they were chest to chest, his legs on the other side of the bed, his hands resting on Virgil’s head and face.

Virgil lay still as Patton traced a hand over his face. The room was silent and Virgil didn’t dare break it. His eyelashes fluttered as Patton smoothed down his brows with both thumbs in gentle, rubbing motions. He’d already done this to Patton several times today, so he figured it was only fair that he let Patton do what he needed to.

Virgil’s heart seemed to shake in his chest. He still felt not-quite-right. Maybe he didn’t believe this was real, or the despair of losing Patton was still too fresh to have him back already. Somehow, though, he knew that Patton would be able to fill the cracks. The parts of him that felt not-Virgil could be Patton. Without even conscious thought, Virgil’s hands moved in the signs he’d practiced over and over and over.

“I love you.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath. Patton’s hands left from where they were combing his hair out of his eyes. Virgil didn’t feel worried. Well, for a second he did. For a brief second, his stomach dropped and the world ended. Then Patton spoke.

“I love you.”

Virgil froze. That—that was—Patton—?

It sounded just like him. It sounded like his quiet, wheezing laugh, that got higher in pitch instead of louder. It sounded exactly the way his hands felt, rubbing up and down his back during a night-long hug. It sounded like how his smile felt under Virgil’s fingers, the way one side was higher than the other and his lips were slightly cracked in the middle. It sounded like Patton.

Slowly, almost as if scared, Patton’s hands returned to his face, cupping his cheeks tenderly.

Virgil did the same, one hand buried in his hair, the thumb of his other hand pressed into Patton’s cheek while his fingers curled near his ear.

As if unsure, Patton came carefully closer, Virgil’s hand putting light pressure on his head to tilt it down.

The room was quiet, nothing but their steady breathing breaking the silence. The darkness that was all that Virgil could see somehow no longer felt oppressive, more … unexplored. Full of everything, all the disappointments and happiness and anxiety and hurt and new and love.

Cracked in the middle, Patton’s lips pressed gently against his, barely moving at all. His hands tensed, but remained gentle on Virgil’s cheeks. Virgil reciprocated softly, letting Patton lead. The tip of Patton’s nose brushed against his, feather light. Slowly, and with a very soft kissing noise, Patton pulled away, drawing Virgil’s chin up with him.

Virgil’s hand on Patton’s cheek traveled down to his mouth, tracing that smile that was higher on one side.

Then he pulled him back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, texting my partner: Roman can punch someone. as a treat  
> Me, texting my partner again an hour later: PATTON AND VIRGIL CAN KISS. AS A TREAT


	29. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this is it :’’’( The very end. I most certainly teared up a bit while writing it. Thank you all so much for reading, sharing, and commenting. I still have trouble believing how many people actually like my writing, but you all have never dropped your support.
> 
> If you want to see any of my other works, just head on over to my profile!
> 
> Thank you again for sharing this journey with me. And now, on to the finale!
> 
> cw: flashback from an outsider’s pov, food

“ _Everything’s fine? The move went well?_ ”

“ _Dad, we’re fine,_ ” Patton replied, smiling at the camera. Logan shifted uncomfortably on the other end. “ _Really, we’re good. The neighbors even brought over some banana bread._ ”

His father flinched at the mention of neighbors, then forced a smile onto his face. “ _That’s … very kind. Of them. To do that._ ”

“ _Yes, it is,_ ” Patton encouraged.

Logan hadn’t been able to take enough time off work to come visit them yet, so it had been five months since they had seen each other in person. They video chatted every day, but Father always seemed on edge. As time passed, he didn’t appear to be getting much better at all with the distance. Remus would sometimes sit in on the calls, and he seemed happy with Father’s progress, but Patton couldn’t help but compare him to the man he’d grown up with. Where was the quiet strength, the soft smiles, the feeling of protection?

Patton didn’t blame him, though. They had all changed. It was part of life, and growing, and learning. Nothing stayed the same, and that was okay.

“ _How are you and Virgil?_ ” Father asked, as he always did. Patton laughed a little.

“ _We’re good,_ ” Patton signed. “ _I told you that we’re doing therapy together, right?_ ” Logan nodded. Patton nodded as well. “ _Yeah, it’s cheaper. And we’re learning a lot._ ”

“ _And no fights between the roommates?_ ”

“ _We … we did just move in yesterday._ ”

Logan raised his eyebrows. “ _Well, there are four of you,_ ” he signed. “ _Who knows?_ ”

“ _Since it’s only two bedrooms, Remus and Roman have decided to share too,_ ” Patton told him, “ _but Virgil and I are pretty sure that won’t last long. They have a deal to trade between the bed and the air mattress every other week, but Virgil thinks it won’t even be one week before one of them drags the air mattress into the living room._ ”

The room shook a bit and Patton looked up to see Virgil closing the front door behind him. He kicked off his shoes and propped his white cane up in the corner behind the door, before turning his head from this way to that, listening.

“I’m on the couch,” Patton called out. Father jumped at the sound of his voice, but tried to play it off as straightening his collar.

Virgil waved in the direction of the couch, then promptly tripped over Roman’s dress shoes. Patton giggled when he signed a curse as well as saying it out loud.

Virgil paused by the couch, well in view of the laptop that Patton was video chatting on. Father began talking (probably a greeting) as Patton hopped up to kiss his boyfriend. Virgil smiled, said something in response to Father, then headed toward the kitchen.

Patton checked to make sure his phone was on. Remus had been the one to do the shopping, and who knew how he had thrown everything into the cupboards and fridge. It was a little after noon, so Roman would probably be home soon to help Virgil find food, but if he didn’t want to wait Virgil would take a picture of the contents of the fridge and text it to Patton so that he could tell him the locations of each thing.

“ _How is everything for you? Remus says he won’t hesitate to drive down there if you don’t take care of yourself._ ”

Logan smiled softly. “ _I assure you, I am quite all right,_ ” he waved. “ _I am even attending therapy._ ”

“ _That’s—_ ” Patton dropped his hands as he glanced back at his phone, which had just buzzed. The notification wasn’t a text message, though. It was from the app that all of them had, the one that called for help. The notification was from Virgil. His heart dropped, just as it always did.

“ _I’ve got to go, goodbye,_ ” Patton signed quickly. He’d closed the laptop before Father even finished his farewell. Then he was up and off to the kitchen, which luckily was only a few steps away from the living room.

Virgil was crouched on the floor, a container of food open in front of him. His hands covered his face and his whole body was trembling, tension in every line.

Patton froze for a moment, scared. What could he do? He had no idea what had triggered Virgil, or if they had any ice cubes to use to snap him out of it, or if he would even be able to bring him back by himself. But the moment of uncertainty passed, and Patton dropped to his knees beside the shaking man.

It was easy to kick the leftovers away, less easy to maneuver Virgil into his arms. Once they were sort of comfortable on the floor, Patton began tracing soothing words into Virgil’s arm. It wasn’t instant, but soon enough Virgil began to calm down, eventually breathing in a steady rhythm.

“You okay?” Patton asked quietly. Virgil shrugged, gripping his jeans as his legs continued to shake. Patton held him closer, a hand rubbing his back soothingly.

 _Don’t let go_ , Virgil wrote tremulously onto Patton’s arm.

 _I never will_.

When Roman arrived home, slinging his backpack onto the card table that made up their dining room, he found them still that way, curled up in each other on the tiled kitchen floor. He made a mental note to later ask what had happened, quietly picked up the container of food, then retreated to his and Remus’s bedroom.

-

Remus pushed open their bedroom door, ready to just flop onto whichever bed was Roman’s. Lucky him, Roman was already stretched out there, a container of leftover pasta and a plastic fork beside him. He looked up from the food and smiled cautiously.

“Hey,” he said. “How was therapy?”

Remus shrugged.

Roman winced. “Is that … not something I’m supposed to ask about? Virgil’s usually okay with talking about it a bit, but—”

“Nah, it’s … whatever.” Remus dropped to the mattress on the floor, toeing off his socks. “Didn’t really say anything, but that’s group therapy for ya. Not talking doesn’t waste anybody’s time.”

Roman was quiet for a moment, and Remus glanced at him. He looked like he was thinking—always a first time for everything, Remus supposed. As soon as Remus had pulled his phone out of his pocket, Roman spoke.

“Do you think that, possibly, I could come with you? Next time?”

Okay, apparently there was a first time for everything. Remus frowned and dropped his phone, looking at the wall.

Roman was quick to backtrack. “I mean, I know that I didn’t go through all that … stuff … that you did, but … I don’t know. Maybe as support for you?”

“Is this still about you punching me?” Remus asked, eyes narrowed. “Because I told you, we’re cool.”

Roman shrugged awkwardly, his face turning red. “Yeah, I just want to help you in any way that I can. Also, Virgil thinks that I might be developing secondhand trauma?” he added, grimacing. “So I thought that perhaps I could benefit from it. And learn more ways to help all of you.”

“Roman, that’s… .” He wanted to say ‘very thoughtful’ or ‘selfless’ or ‘good thinking’. What came out of his mouth, though, was “expensive.”

Roman looked away, and now it was Remus’s turn to backtrack. “I mean, I did just get that job,” he said quickly, “and I’d love to help ya out in any way that I can. I even wouldn’t mind giving up therapy, if you think you wanna try it out. I don’t need it that bad.”

Roman laughed, and Remus relaxed fractionally. “Don’t worry,” he said, turning back to his pasta. “Mom and Dad are willing to pay for half of it, and I can cover the rest if I cut down my meal plan. After all, we’re buying plenty of food. I don’t need twenty-one meals a week.”

“You sure? After all, you’re walking an extra two blocks to campus,” Remus reminded. “You need all the strength you can get, for such a journey!”

Roman threw a pillow at him. “Shut up,” he chuckled, then frowned. “And give that back.”

Remus shoved the pillow under himself and smirked. “Too late.”

Instead of fighting for it back, Roman just smiled softly and twirled his fork in the pasta. “Yeah. That’s okay, though.”

-

Virgil breathed in as he woke, feeling the warmth of the sun on his arm that rested above the blankets. It wasn’t quite time to get up, then. If it was, the sunlight that filtered through the gap in their blinds would have reached his face.

He lay there for as long as he could, burrowing deeper under the blankets and into Patton’s arms. The softness of his nightshirt rubbed against his nose and cheek, and Virgil sighed contentedly. This was everything.

Yesterday’s flashback had been bad (who even gets triggered by the sound of a container opening?), but Patton had been there. Moving had been hard, but Patton had been there. Therapy was hard, but Patton was there.

It wasn’t just Patton, either. Roman was taking many of the same classes that he was, despite not needing all of them. Remus was willing to drive him just about anywhere, even to a park just to sit in silence for hours. Patton’s dad, for some reason, regularly called him to check up on him. Roman’s parents cared for him like he was another son. Even Roman’s on-and-off boyfriend, Janus, dropped by to hang out sometimes.

So, Virgil had a pretty good support group. On the days when he felt like just giving up, there was always someone to help him up. Just like he was there for the others. They all loved and supported each other, in their own ways.

Patton’s breathing shifted with a snuffle, followed by him nestling his face into Virgil’s hair. A moment later, he was tracing on Virgil’s arm.

 _Hey you_.

Virgil didn’t even try to muffle the giggle that escaped. The ray of sun had reached his head, warming his dark hair. The alarm would be going off at any minute, but for now, he was happy to be in his boyfriend’s arms.

 _Date tonight_? he asked, his fingers moving slowly on Patton’s arm. _At the smoothie place, with Roman and Janus_?

 _Sounds good_!

Virgil placed his hands on Patton’s chest, meeting his lips for a slow kiss. When they parted, he relaxed back into his love’s arms, unabashedly snuggling. The alarm clock would have to grow arms and pry them apart to get him out of bed.

Old Virgil would have scoffed, unimpressed at his thirst for human contact. Old Virgil wanted to be alone.

As long as it was Roman, and Remus, and Mr. and Mrs. Allred, and Logan, and Janus, and Patton—wonderful, beautiful Patton—Virgil didn’t think he would mind it if he was never alone again.


End file.
